Poor clouds hanging down

Like damp clothes on a line.
Inside a grey hotel room

On Euston Road
Rereading a copy of Ovid 
And trying to recollect

The year 1998 when we first met.
Outside the air is cold.
The sky is moving quickly,
The wind tugging 
The last of the day along.

Nothing is defined.
We’re always becoming,
En route between two points 
Ending in destruction.

The first casualty is the body,
The venturer turns cartographer.

Your naked,
The window pouring light on you.
I cross the hilt and
Step behind the velvet curtain
Where magicians compare techniques,
Hands running through 
Every last trick
Till all myth explodes.

You rise and stand by the window
And look down upon the wind blown street,
Considering for the first time
Of moving away from me.