I have my suspicions

When the stars are in position

All will be revealed

Pretty isn’t in it, you were lovely then, at one with the moment. You crossed the teeming street in one bronzed glide, disappearing into the fug and babble of the holidaying hordes.

I was sure I wanted to possess you; I was young then, filled with the kind of sureness that doesn’t know anything, but old enough to know that in order to succeed I would have to be something as indefinable as gentle. I ran after you, all the while praying you were lost. When I caught up with you and your green eyes I realised you were not lost. I knew someone would always find you. I found myself stumbling but I said it anyway, “I’ve just arrived here, can you help me find my way? All these years later it seems a slap would have been in order, but you laughed and suggested we started with a hello.

But I know that until then

Unless the stars surrender

All will be concealed

Our history, like cheap mascara, runs and ruins in the rain of remembering. The news that came yesterday forces me to construct a memorial postcard: For some reason, on our first date you wanted to meet after dusk down by the worrying harbour. I saw you from a long way off, caught by slivers of moonlight in the beached silhouette of a skeletal upturned hull. Crouched, foetal, like a shadowy marionette; silently calling me home. When we finally kissed it was like being bruised without a blow. Through a hole the size of our lives we dived into the moment like the deepest water – youth will do that for you. Looking back over 40 years, this writer has no right to assume the position of curator of our shared memories. To have come so far and remembered so little is no kind of achievement.

I always dreamed I’d love you

I never dreamed I’d lose you

In my dreams I’m always strong

And now you are dead. Cancer. Voodoo acupuncture. The last time I saw you, you were half the age that I am now. Brilliantly, you were naked except for you rings. Our airy pursuit of nothing seems such a waste. We never verified our promise. When it ended, we were trapped like fragments in a snowdome, turning in the wind of ourselves. What the hell, we asked questions anyway. All I have left are the usual sweetheart keepsakes, letters from Vienna, valentine cards and scuffed photographs. Everything unravelling. These things too: a lock of hair in a tin that will not open; a diary in you spidery scrawl; a charcoal drawing of a horse. And, of course, your absence. Which will bleed into everything I have left to say or do.

All words in italics belong to Mercury Rev