You told me that all love goes to die at Leidseplein.
Back when your face was on mine,
your curled hair around my harsh fingers.

In that anti-squat, full of damp.
Our gas heaters of perpetual mourning.
where our life was filled with promises, overseas disasters and Albert Heijn carrier bags.

So this is my goodbye to you.
Here, by the edge of Leidseplein,
Where the terse policemen breathalyse drunken tourists.

The cold lamps swing blindly from the dead trees.
And I wait willingly despite it all,
to watch you move off sweetly into the world.

Gemma Morrison