Would I have kept you closer, longer, if you’d been a soft toy
that found my empty arms when the nights were endless instead
of your characteristically classy chaos the posters never chose
or were we meant to be just chalk running into the deluge
of the rainstorm?
Should I have been less passionate and you more personable
or I more placid and you less proud?
We were stuffing, in the end, plucking feathers from our insides
out through skins that had neither thickened nor tendered enough
to survive those endless flooding nights together in that hold
we never named.
Un nom, c’est quoi, un nom- la tien, la mien, le nôtre ?
Un non est seulement une chose que tu donnes à quelque chose
quand tu le comprends.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly