Gift

Some past poison,

dry and dead now,

while still corrupt

marked innocent eye and unwitting tongue.

Gifts are not what they are,

for I cannot take them freely.

Somewhere the taste remains.

There is always the lost second

between giving and receiving,

where I search for something,

a motive, trap, or misheard note

in friendship’s dance ?

Yet each gave, unique and rare,

unrecognised.

Now I run my fingers along memory’s shelves

and touch the keepsakes

left on my thoughts

by one lover after another.

Changes learned from another’s eye,

unwrapped afresh

when the effect fades

and perception echoes

a once familiar voice, unthanked.