I I wonder where this comes from…

From far off away I’ve come to stand here once more alone. I could not fathom you then and now the effort seems too much to make. I feel your eyes burning into the dark and wonder no more my fear on this blackened journey. Your postcard sits amongst momentoes, junk from other places I’ve been and seen, if I tried I could put my hands to it though the urge has yet to take. Yours to remind me that horror can come dressed in good clothes and pretty manners.
To tell how we met escapes me too, I think work and sufferance of circumstance threw us together. Yours of taking pity on my poverty of expression and life. Me the needing a friend against the rain of woe that was fated in that lacklustre job. I feel so young looking back so far, so low a distance in time, yet so high in cost that I cannot bear long thought you now. I never expected to bear another’s grief though I guess that is motive enough for you.
I painted for you that long summer, make-work for you but food and cheap wine for me. Meeting your friends and relatives seemingly lost in their own thoughts though not shared there. Life gloom is contagious, this I didn’t know then and took the gaiety as true rather than bulwark against long nights. We talked into the small hours of music, politics, art and how philistinism can be good subterfuge to avoid the deluge of those with more money than us. We slept together first as friends and later as slow lovers who fear for their actions but act in good faith to support more than mere acquaintanship. You wanted/decided to take me to Italy. Though my journey was taking me to France, to easy friends and halted journeys by hitch-hike. Instead we rode to Paris by train, meeting more of your friends drinking good expensive wine and food to stretch waistlines. Later to catch the Rome train all couchettes, cigarette smoke and pasty tear faced girls holding love like lepers their bell.
Rome was light, atmosphere and me running away from you, having discovered your lie about your age. I could hang onto the twenty years difference but not the lie, if this unimportant then why the miss? You chasing me through ruins dark with history, shot through by glorious light, slow motion commotion, too hot to create much movement. Catching up with me in bars, sipping frozen beers, wanting to make amends, be friends, siesta together. Back at the hotel looking through a strange comic porno book I’d found in some dark corner, your hands finding me swelling and building more, not wanting to fuck and knowing that all was on offer. We had sex, me in fog of beers, heat and fuzzed images from the magazine. You in need, the wanting of more, sadness that I would be leaving soon and more: the scheming I was yet to discern. Your face escapes, though the mix of sunshine yellow, mud brown and seventies purple hotel wall paper burn as cinders in my memory of parting.
I left Italy in the company of strangers, growing light heart bright with the places to come. You again silent at my going. I loved France with friends, the vineyards, walking to the boulangerie for breakfast baguette’s and the cool space of morning. You were asked after then left alone as I wanted you to be. Time moves us on and I came home to your note asking to see me, hoping to be friends again. I tried the best I could thought to accept less when more had been once freely given bothered you, turned open face to stone. My visits grew less and then no more.
Then, late evening talking to a newer friend, sitting on the floor looking through photographs. The window erupted, a brick, there, in the middle of the floor. You in the street, angry. Demanding entry and time to talk. The newer friend left. You still angry, incoherent about love gone and whatever memories you could dredge to throw. I drove you home hearing suicidal promises, threats to others, to me. You insisting I come in for coffee, conversation, insisting on being heard. Fear surfaced here, I didn’t want to be there, be with you, with this mess, then you tried to pour boiling water on me and that gave enough excuse to leave.
Your postcard arrived five days later. You’d miscarried, the child, a boy you said, immediately christened, named and died. You would be away for some time. I never knew, I still don’t, was this real, part of your plan in Rome? or just a crueller way to punish?
The card lies now amongst memories, I could put hands to it but the will of effort is not there. I carry it amongst sentimental momentoes whenever I move for I never want another like it.

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