Manchester Noughties

By popular demand, here is the next instalment. This follows on from Out-growing.

A bolt from the blues
And there he stood
My long-haired, brown eyed boy

More trouble than he was worth
But oh, he meant the dawning
Of a brave new world to me

Black-clad from his boots
To his faded tee
Proclaiming the road to Hell

Hours spent revelling
Skin on skin
Tracing patterns on his chest

In post-coital bliss
As our sweaty limbs cooled
The disc spun its Dream Theater

And dirty, sticky
Sheets stuck
To our grinning faces

I felt so alive in those moments
Clambering over his dozing form
Twitching the curtain aside

Peering out at my world
Spying on the backyard
The comfort of a familiar scene

His middle-aged neighbour
Hanging out day-old washing to air
In a crowded corner

Grey skies over damp rows of workers’ cottages
Pegs and pots of geraniums
A battered bathroom chair

He took me places
We went to concerts
Wandered the aisles of the supermarket

Hands in each other’s pockets
I wore his jeans and shirts
Over my naked skin

Danced in the rain in bare feet
And walked through Moss Side
Nightly, after dark

Just to wake up by his side
So lost in my own happiness
No street life ever bothered me

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