Morocco Mon Amour
My Heart Has No Home
Mon Amour Driss,
I feel forgotten by you, I can’t forget you. I can’t bury you in the cemetery of the past. It’s a hoax this business of forgetting. It’s high summer here in Sydney and the days are dark without you.
I walked over the Harbour Bridge yesterday; it has a view of the Opera House. All I saw was six lanes of metallic and the roar of petrol but the comforting rattle of the train that passes over the bridge. With work I feel like I pass the day in perpetual silence chained to my desk drowning in paper. My friend said, ‘It’s just a job ... change your attitude.’ I don’t know ... I’m going to continue to write to you and I will not get a reply. It will cost you 89 centimes for a stamp. It seems too much to ask ...
I want to frame those first three months I was in Paris with you, and that month last year in Morocco. I want to hang it next to the wooden clock on the wall above my bed. Those hot nights of waiting, of talking, of making love with our words on Rue D’Aboukir. Waiting for you to return to my fourth floor apartment with ice cubes for the Martini Rossato and the loud love making that would follow next to paper thin walls where I could hear the neighbours cough. Paper thin walls never mattered in that hotel room in Morocco calling out ‘Oui’ bent over the bed and the knock of the chamber maid on the door.
What to make of all those moments of ecstasy past? I want to unfold you again, not curl up in the misery of an unanswered phone, or worse, a woman’s voice to answer. I want to smear
my lipstick all over your shirt collar. I want everyone to see you are for me, like yesterday, like before and for always. I don’t want to know another man’s touch or form. I want you to keep me to make love to me in the mornings before work. To make love so loud the neighbours blush. Oh mon objet d’amour, I will return to you to your embrace. What to make of all these frayed threads of my heart...
Je t’embrasse forte, (I kiss you hard)
Artwork by Ernest Williamson