One month down.

More of a half-poem, really, and older than most on here so far.

The new lamp

To touch the shadows was really
to touch you. Underneath the mountain
of mistakes, we nightly avoided our own
pasta sauce, in awe of the plainness
of ourselves. This night, though,

at the nose-pressed glass of a lighting shop,
the lack of shadow lifted the mountainous dark
to our backs. Touching your face you were lit
to me anew. That night we savoured the sight
of the brightest of red tomatoes.