Cat Stevens

At least the lightbulbs were colourful, strung
along the wooden beams. The glow of blue,
red, and green through dust. We left the pub
dragging a new found weight of existence.

You said it would be nice to leave something
behind. No change in tide, no renewing waves
to a shore. Just a footprint in the sand would do.

We came home to a power cut, and so we lay on the bed
and listened to Cat Stevens on an old Walkman.

If it could be only this: you and I, nestled in the dark.

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