No more putting it off. I'm cold and hungry
and my voice will sound like porridge, lumps and all.
Still, you deserve some expression of how I am,
a notebook scribble to find when you are bored.
Back then, you were closer than my retinas,
the dark of my eyelids.
I would go to bed kissing you and wake up alone.
Oh! morning kisses – half awake, nuzzling into dryness!
Of course, you're the sort who knows but doesn't mention.
You're the sort who – closer to me than myself – is just there.
Capricious spirit, you deserved every moment I gave you –
every drop of attention, every tear.
Do you remember being by the lake that time,
when lateness and love were pressing on my mind?
To you I was alone, though our friends were there.
You threw your dusky blanket into the air.
You whispered uneven songs into my ear.
I wore your big wooly jumper, bobbled with stars,
breathing moonlight as if it were just a gas.
I realised then that you never loved me,
and that I loved another of my friends.
My cold feet kissed the grass. And when you left,
I wrote it all out in a stretch of dry coherence.
My best work yet. It's not for you. I breathe.
This anniversary is hard. It's the little details:
like finding your words there in my handwriting,
or your crumpled jumper in the corner of the evening.
I don't want to ask for emotional favours,
but we should meet again, soon. Coffee is fine.
I'll wait at dusk in the garden. Take your time.