We spoke in several tongues that summer night
But the sense of what we said remained the same
Until I tucked a stray hair behind your ear
And quietly touched this other side of you
Hidden beyond a threatening pile
Of dusty files and vintage books.
We lost our heads and labelled lives
Tossing adjectives and clothes behind closed doors – –
And afterwards, in the languid silence
Our fingers interlocked, we stared
At the dawn-stroked frescoes of our future
On the single-coloured ceiling.