We used to hold hands, a quiver
along the skin
at touch, do you remember?
You handled me like I was food,
to be prepared pealed back,
to find the taste within.
I was advised not to- but I had hungered,
had grown ill without.
A cold cut cannot survive without the fold
of the fridge.
Or were you the oil and I the onion?
Having already been cut,
sliced before being found. Remember?
But we’d been spared the tears.
We tasted of a thousand nights
that had never known any stars
and then we wanted to taste it all.
Do you remember? No,
you don’t. I forgot.
We only held hands in my head
in that room I shared
with the one I shared the tears with.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly