A. V. Koshy writes

There were two walls between us
not just one
and when you came out of the back door
and walked around in the déshabillé you can be found in only at home
(looking slightly dishevelled and half dressed)
I did not think of
stealing your son
from his workplace
to take him to a pub
for a drink or two
and a dance with the girls
after a couple of fags or tokes of weed
and then coming home to you drunk
to be shouted at and made to stand outside
until your anger cooled off to end in laughter
at and with us, laughing outside

I thought of the curves
on your back and front
and smoothing them
only to see them appear
again, as if by magic
and wanting to empty the whole place of people
while you walked around in the yard
here and there
picking leaves, flowers, plastic or garbage
musing or feeling sad
wishing you would never go back in
through your back door
and time would stop
so I could always loiter there
from the high perch on my balcony
and see you
wander, looking a little lost
and palpably beautiful
not knowing I was eyeing you
with only the intention to s(m)oothe -
your hair.
 
Two Walls -- Rosemary Walden