Inspired by a Tumblr post I now can’t find… if you recog­nise the story, please con­tact me!

There’s some­thing about scarlet cush­ions and 1940s jazz,
Dark bars and tiny crystal gob­lets filled with cloying golden wine
And a promise of desire that draws me in every time.
In every war, there’s one — a place where the des­olate gather,
Greys and browns shattered with a slash of red lip­stick,
That quickened pulse that comes from the camaraderie
Of the unknown tomorrow and the too-close call.
Wit and wine and wicked­ness — the parry of pur­pose
And the succor of close quar­ters, body heat and laughter.
It’s a rush: sex, death, right­eous­ness, denial;
That cresting wave of poten­tial tomor­rows
Staved off by another round, another wager,
A for­bidden kiss. I drink it all in, the coded glances,
The sur­repti­tious hands on knees, the whispered strategies,
The prom­ised ren­dez­vous, the love let­ters and pho­to­graphs
car­ried in pockets and slipped into books to be found
Dec­ades later by unsus­pecting grand­chil­dren
Who never knew grandpa cradled a memory
of a raven-haired man with a trick­ster smile,
Whose touch burned like paper and melted like wax,
Whose name whispered in the dawn was like wanting
And whose eyes were quick­silver and hope.