We’d meet after classes,
mostly on cold, clammy autumn evenings
it now seems, with the foggy moisture
from the Danube suffusing everything,
Barbara and I, and go to my room
at the catholic dorm where I lived.
She’d ask me to put Leonard Cohen
on, but only Songs of Leonard Cohen,
none of the other records of his I had,
and then we’d fall asleep, face to face
and breath to breath,
tightly embraced on my bed,
to the story of Suzanne
taking you down to her place by the river
and feeding you tea and oranges
come all the way from China.
– James Steerforth ( © 2010 )
Sparked by Cocoon at One Single Impression.