Of satellites orbiting a silent earth

(reader discretion advised)

We would have taken rounds around the other. Prepared the stage, rehearsed, practiced our lines late into the night, had steaming tea, a smoke and freshly made Maggie.

We would have made good lovers. Read out Spanish poetry, bloomed like flowers in February, flicked glances at the other’s wrists, curving fingers, darkening profile against the pale blue sky.

We would have discovered the other piece by piece. Leisured in an empty house, cooked in a small kitchen. Overlooking the garden where you would have bent every morning and picked out what you would like for lunch, listened to the Beatles on blue evenings and danced to Summer Wine before retiring to bed.

We would have seen possibilities together in the cycle-rickshaw, our shoulders rubbing as speed-breakers grew into flyovers in this sprawling city.

We would have coalesced love, meaning and life in whispering “sleep baby” after a harrowing day at work.

We would have invited Van Gogh for breakfast, nibbled on Rimbaud for midday snack, swam with Neruda on a lazy afternoon, walked with Bill Waterson for an evening and seduced Murakami for dinner.

We would have.