It was amazing luck, to get that clue.
Threading between the darkened outer rooms
he sought escape, the bull’s head in his arms.
The bass was thumping as the blood within.
She, grateful for assistance, guided him
outwards, his half-drunk feet still holding true.
They bounced it past the guards. So they were free:
(not Crete but Mykonos) though the summer’s heat
and adrenalin made the whole street a haze.
Too soon to speak of love, they spoke of everything
except love: favourite books, weird kinks, lost hours,
first memories, last regrets, worst fears.
It wasn’t him abandoned her. The stars
made sure of it that they should walk apart.
The memory is good. But that’s tonight:
morning will come and take it all away.
To seagirt Dia (wherever that was) she went,
he weaving home, slowly losing the thread.
This poem © Oliver Tearle 2021