With each kiss, love blooms hotly up the vein,
as dangerous as gambling.
What once sang in joy now whispers too of pain.
The lips can be a window on the soul
and yours are where I find you:
a more reckless man than that whom others know.
For months we wrote blank cheques and lived in bliss.
Love stalked us all that winter
in the pubs and on the dark streets where we kissed.
The bill comes. Far too late, by now, to find
we can’t pay. Adjustments start
in all the tenderest reaches of the heart.
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