“Why a tulip?”
He said touching my tattoo.
“For Sylvia”, I said, “And blue for Joni Mitchell,
And because I like that colour.”

“A morbid choice,” he said.
But I have always liked morbidity
It suits me some.

I did not choose to mention yours
Or how we sheltered from the rain
In a red phone box
Outside a tattoo shop in Soho, kissing.
Or the Vodka Martinis I drank for courage, before
In a pseudo-American bar, next door.

I didn’t say
About the way
You often bit it
As we made love
Or about the kick it gave us
To scar our bodies
Permanently
Identically.

I forget it sometimes
Then catch it in a mirror
And think I’ve seen you.
Do you do that too?
Our tight skinned backs
Each scarred
With a perfectly blue
Tulip tattoo
Bending in shame
At your deceit