from P. in Tangier to Sally B.

from P. in Tangier to Sally B.
god, how I miss you,
your fragrance lingers everywhere
haunting desert dusty corners
there’s no escape
I open a wardrobe
your green velvet dress is there
I open a drawer
half-full perfume bottles lie there
and silk pink lingerie
I open a book, it’s signed,
“to P, from S, with love”
I lay awake
replaying those nights  
of loving, and gorging
on madjools and majoun
I ought to throw out
your Chefchaouen blanket
peppered with scorchings
from kif we smoked –
I should but I can’t –  
I can but I won’t
when I tried to write
you prevented me
how could I compose
my sentimental songs 
with you standing naked
hurling beldi cups at me
and fishwife insults?
you clung to me yet hated me
wanted a life with me 
and wanted me dead
you stabbed me with words
and stabbed me with silence
I stood beside you watching
rain lashing our courtyard
thinking the flood
and our bittersweet love
would never end
I wrote a song about
dancing, spinning,
soaking, smiling,
tears and loathing
a poem about you
a poem about us
on our last full day together…
you got sick, remember? 
it is framed on the wall
above the bed
for you to read
when you come back to me
if you can…
                   come back to me.

© coolhermit 2023
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CH, not sure you need the first and fourth lines. The lines below and around fill the gap pretty well.

When were you in Tangiers?

2 years ago spent a month driving down the coast from Tangiers to the Western Sahara – with the family and survived! well apart from the coke bottle that the youngest threw at her sister breaking off a front tooth. But serendipity or what – the cafe we had stopped at there were 3 dentists having their supper and the broken piece was carefully and glued into place the next morning!



A spritely fellow you are as well! That is a very distinguished beard you are sporting, a thoroughly northern Indian look.


I love this did “Sally” ever come back? Great imagery… naked chucking pots at ya! I love the dirty reality of your love affairs. The only thing women have thrown at me apart from insults was a glass across a bar in Boulogne, missed my nut by inches. No were near as exciting as if she’d been naked.


Another slice of life drawn from your experiences, I have felt those stabs in my day, to often really. Excellent work, Rick.

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