lets call it sweet madness

I might have come to find the ghosts or finally lose them. I walked up the footsmoothed tiles at london bridge station slick with the rain its where we had laughed at the man who skidded like a treadmill on a similar rainy day. But the turkish restaurant off the park had closed down and is now a posh nosh burger joint which you would hate, the burgers are small and stylish. Burgers..stylish. pretentious crap we both hate. Scaffolding rises and falls around the church on charlotte st like a blanket against the cold and I went to see if you and I were still loving like a pair of doves beneath the naive. praying still, but loving not. I ran along the Thames to the clearing where wild garlic grew and you picked the small white flower of it to put in my messy hair, did we notice that a beggar lived there? I paid him, generously, for preserving the glory of the space, for keeping the wildflowers wild. He had watched me walk my life under the shoulder of yours, and he offered to pay me it back. And finally went to the red door and green walls. they are the corners of someone elses joy now. Look at the way he paints those things, how he brings light into the lovely trees. dropping e, we do not anymore. there is not a trace of ya face in the place, in any of these places. I walk back through the park 1886 and there is no ache. no throat spasm of your leaving and marrying and becoming a dad. La folie douce is a nightclub on top of a mountain in val-d is ere in le trois vallees. It is garlic in my hair. sweetly mad. All that was good is still good. and I am not suprised.