a fifty fifth poem...'book I read'

‘But anyway’, she says, tilting her head to one side, chin raised a fraction, dark eyes, and I think to myself how I am supposed to continue talking, about something or nothing, or whatever it was, a book I read? The one with the sellotaped spine, coffee stain on the opening page? A show we should go to someday, in the future?  ‘But anyway’, she says, and I try and pick up where it was I left off: the show? the book?, something, nothing. ‘What are you reading?’, I say, lost in between futures and pasts, thinking about the moment on the stair, where she wouldn’t share the same step, dark eyes, and why nothing adds up, but anyway…She’s reading Fitzgerald, and I recall it was I who passed on the recommendation, wrote out a long list on the front/back of a wedding invitation, sent it to her since she asked, loves, hates, passions just like mine - someday our eyes will shine like the sun, and our heads will be clear, and our hearts will be full, and we won’t have to do this, but anyway.  But anyway here she is, and here am I, on the edge, dark eyes, dark head of dark hair to one side, a half empty bottle of cheap red wine, on the edge of something beautiful, the book I read, with the sellotaped spine, coffee stain on the opening page, underneath the book title a pencil line, and someday, in the future, I suppose I’ll think back gladly on these times.  But anyway.