...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
that first night. Her eyes always full of
conversation; she looked at both of us with a
drowsy squint and said with a nod: Let us drink,
and sure I am that Poet, but now I’m mostly just
drunk, though not like Baudelaire! Just drunk!
Said Leila, I remember. I assumed the same
treatment as the hopeful lothario looking on,
alone at the other side of that Shoreditch bar, but
was met with the lady that would begin to define
much about my life. Her presence was as if death
from a kiss: her moods sauntered with anger in
one moment and joy the next, but seemed to
nestle into her somehow befriending Yashu and I.
Though not before she firmly placed Yashu in his
place by letting him know that she was a lesbian
and that she was: Just not interested, look at your
hair, she flippantly added for good measure — the
trinity that became us had said its first prayers at
an altar: a prayer here, a prayer there, everywhere
a sermon. Leila was like the holy spirit; in the
sense that a poet’s belief in the grandeur is that
which lubricates our eternal essence — the
sensitive nature of the poet; for everywhere exists
a sermon: to Leila, the trees spoke of a rainy day
and the creases on a person’s face told a story.
Yashu differed: he had a preoccupation with the
high—minded motifs of visual beauty with his art
containing rosaries, chapels and such religious
iconography, if I can remember. I perhaps
oscillate between both perspectives, as the rain
continues to fall. Though the roles would often
change between us, in hindsight, though this is
only apparent as the end is nearing. Maybe I have
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