Bonnie & Clyde

To the other half of my heartbeat,

Once like lovers on the run in Morocco I am your Bonnie, be my Clyde. Just as she had sympathy for the devil so do I.

I no longer have a long way to travel to get to you. Lost in a crowd of six million people you came to find me in my hotel room ghetto-suite-styling down by the water. Never knowing before what a Sunday could be in this weekday room.

You don’t have to pick the lock I gave you the keys to the city and I am free for you to lock me up. I can hear my house key jangling on the metal chain in your pocket all the time knowingly telling me love has my address.

I think you know my mother gave me something that gives me good swerve. You know I have it as you ran to me and I put it all together makes me everything a good man needs.

We run this town you beside me bombing down to The Spot with my red lipstick kiss tattooed on the nape of your neck beaming above your white shirt collar, for all to see. With my lipstick matching gleaming up on the high street that you are mine and my navy blue linen dress swinging hitched into the elastic on my black panties like a modern-gypsy –outlaws. Linked arm in arm my tattooed garter belt showing on my upper right thigh acting as a holster for the tattooed grey metallic gun glinting underneath.

We can play stick'em up at the Night Owl index fingers blazing. Sneaking into The Verona cinema to hide out after running out on the bill from Bar Millazo - Claudio hollering - shaking his fists. I do all this as I love you my man and I am a liar if I say I won’t. I would be a liar if I said I don’t.

Sleepwalking through the days without you and walking where the mood takes us together through the nights to my secret places in this city. We can dive into the harbor on a hot night I know just the spot where the water is deep. We can sun bake at midnight in this concrete paradise - this hot bitumen city made of brick. There is always my apartment to wash this place off your face it sticks to you like glue gets under your finger nails with the summer grit. Just as I have pieces of you stuck to me so I will never let you leave you are my slave now.

Singing in the street with you whistling on my arm I know I don’t have to put my dreams to sleep and my heart aint got no obituary no more.

XXXX

F.