Thierry’s Line


One ordinary,

Rather hot summer night-

Nothing special, nothing different-

In my mind’s eye I ran my finger down the line of hair

That ran from your chest

Before it disappeared beneath your shorts

As the breeze blew open your shirt and I caught the smile in your eye

As you read my thoughts.


With your short dark hair-

Amid a season of blondes that I was tiring of-


Who I never kissed or lay with,

Who I never undressed outside of that one dizzy dream.

Later that night-

Fuelled on cocktails while our friends fell distracted by a jovial waiter-

You took my finger and brushed it along that same hair line.

Nothing said,

Nothing promised;

Just that fine line between you and I.


With your eyes which shone that night towards a blue shade of green,


With your black jeans, red shirt

And tan which stopped just short of where that line disappeared.

We told tales,

Shared drinks,

Swapped numbers

But time, in its humour,

Fell shorter than either of us had imagined.

You seemed like the first man I’d seen in such a long time

Having been lost for a while in a sea of bleached blonds-

All as harmless as they were hairless

While I cavorted about their baby soft skins

With careless concerns for complacency.

But you looked like something else

On that fortuitous night

As the setting sun sizzled

And breezes briefly blew bodies bare.

That tremendous night when nothing really happened

Except for the soft touch of that line I never managed to cross


More importantly-

The line I never managed to forget.

All words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly


Published by deuxiemepeau

Published poet, writer, baker and former fashion maker, with footprints in Paris, London and Amsterdam but currently back home in Dublin with sights aimed at leaving a mark on the West coast one clear fine day...

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