Last Love? Poem by Allan Thorne

The weather is warming
And I am ripe for love,
Swollen, hot and aching,
Like the pimple
In the crease of my nose.

I try and hide it
But I am sure it bleeds through
The furtive hungry glances,
The nervous laugh.
A junkie looking for a fix,
That loving look
From glistening eyes.

Foolishness! Foolishness!
Standing on the cliff edge
Of humiliation. Preparing
To make some sophomoric declarations
To a strange woman
Who will no doubt
Be more alarmed than charmed.

Ah but there is that irresistible pull
Of self destruction
In madness of spring.


“You might be my last lover”
She said.
It was a grim and shocking thing
But possibly true.
Inevitably true.
There will be a last lover.
There will be a last love.
There will be a last spring.

May I buy you a cup of coffee?
And thrash with you through
A long and tangled night?
Be bold! Time is short.
How many springs
Do we have left?