Fourth,

maybe it’s the fifth.

This time,

I think it was Madrid.

I told you my favourite garden,

you told me of the

Lake Gardens sapling you had planted.

I declined your offer of a mint.

Silken strokes,

hands settle

ever-changing

shape of waves.

Flushed face,

over-arching silence

between rush

and calm

that comes only

with the gaze

of a twin flame.

Down into the

deep of a blue

another world,

an underworld,

where echoes spin

and light

shines through.