Guilty until proven guilty

Take my phone

Tell me I’m lying

Read my

‘Are you out tonight?’

And his

‘Yes, let’s meet up’

And then the gap between it all

When we were two normal students

Too normal

For that

And then the bit between then and now

The bit you care about

That bit

When my sunken eyes

Drunken eyes

Dried out

And my body bent

Inwards outwards

And my shoulder blade

Became the only memory

Of an almost forgotten night

And after that

He takes my phone and texts himself

Maybe to protect himself?

Show me he is not who he is

Show Vera more like

Monday

Another sun

Or maybe the same

Wakes us early

And forces us to change

Again

But remain very much the same

And hustle into another car

Which gives good news

Exciting scary news.

 

Us three

Walk down past ruined castles

And beaches

And talk about each other

And laugh about each other

And queue for something

Very much worth queuing for.

 

Home again

To spend

Another never-ending night

Talking about

How amazing it has been

And I think

How strange it is

That your thoughts are mine

And I cannot wait to wake up

Tomorrow (and for many more tomorrows)

In a good mood

‘I think it might be your fault’

Sunday

Another morning is ours

And waiting

When we open our eyes

To sweat and sun

And cover ourselves in more

Or less

Cloth

And meet him

Who I haven’t seen in a while

And miss.

 

In the car we gallop

Down motorways

And get caught in a storm

Of people

And when we land on the beach

We seek shelter

To eat our sand sprayed

Sandwiches

And listen to poetry

That I haven’t written

But wish I had.

 

At home we waste hours

Eating, drinking

Listening to me talk

And listening to him listen

A soft hum and nod

And then decide

To take the night

And watch other’s laugh

Upon borrowed bikes.

 

And it feels so good

To have him

And to let him have me

Because I have never met myself

Or seen myself so closely

And he’s making me love her

And telling her

‘You’re not the only one’

But meaning something other

To what ‘he’ has said before.

 

Saturday

Hungover mornings

On their balcony

Smoked salmon

Bitter on my tongue

Melting with the aftertaste

Of martini

But soothing too

And friendlier.

 

We walked to the dene

And bent down to speak

To lower creatures

Who melt me

And her

And then to spend our last few coins

On ice that’ll melt too

When licking at our tongues.

 

And then it’s into a busy street

To buy disposable things

Plastic time

And plastic love

In the heat

And through pathways

That sound like Fleetwood Mac

And drawn out summer days.

 

And home now to enjoy

The freeze of tap water

On my bare legs

We drink rose to soften

And numb our limbs

And push and rock our bodies

Into corners

Of our round heaven.

 

It’s 7 o’ clock

And we’ve forgotten the time

So hurry into clothes

And onto metros

And drag our half-drunk minds

To meet sober ones

Who remind me of older times

Before him

Horrible times.

 

We skip home

Me speaking nonsense

And him

As always

Catching each word

And cherishing it

And telling me

‘You’re drunk’

As if he isn’t too.

 

On the Millennium bridge

 

Mirrored lights

Shallow and deepen

As photos are taken in the cloudless sky

And I imagine our faces blurred and out of focus

Like the memory

A small speck on a broader landscape

A single moment on a timeline

 

I slip down metal seats on the Millennium bridge

And you catch me

As I feel myself falling

Pull me back to reality for a little longer

Maybe just a few seconds

Before I feel myself falling again

 

And we are cradled by the bridge’s strong arms

And imagine a world beneath the water

That you can only see when focusing on the lights

And the lines

And the lights

A bus crosses further on and we think the same again

And laugh because it’s funny but also because it’s not

Because it’s scary but it isn’t

Because it’s meant to be wrong

But it’s so very right