I remember .....

when a woman cups her breast not in passion

she uses a softness,

a lightness that is alien to me.

It fills me with wonder,

and the bitter sweet heart ache of a need to protect her

from all hurt.


I remember .....

once, in the end days of a love dying,

the woman did this.

And the bitter sweet heart ache became unbearable

when I realised I was the cause of much of her pain.

The conflict within me was so intense,

I thought I might go mad.


I remember .....

I remember strange things.