Older Poems (#1)



She sat on the tram dressed in purple,
a colour so luscious I wanted to bite into
her flesh, blood-plum sweet.
Her hair was crimson, short and boyish.
Her name was Violet.

When we chatted,
she told me
she had a
fascination for maps,
that cartography was
her passion,
and when left alone
she would trace her
veins with ink.
The maps of the forever
she called them.
Leading everywhere and nowhere.

I wanted to tell
her about my day,
about the insignificance
of it all
but she left so quickly

   the scent of lavender.

Published in the zines Violet  and Small Poems Like Bird Feet.