like sunflowers belong to the sun
I wish my name carried words
from yours. I hunt here on the bed.
Where your scent still lies on my favourite
That i must wash today
before mother arrives and asks
what i did for the weekend
as i sit imagining you, your lips
and how your hands carried me last
Now, I wait. Patiently for mother
with my carefully constructed lies
i watch the front door, wishing, imagining:
you walk through the door, with
Saturday in your arms and on your lips,
the title for this poem comes from a poem by Lord Alfred Douglas of the same name.