The night, hot in July

We burn, twist & turn.

We walk cobbled streets,

We stare at our feet.

We glaze over … everything.

We’re kids, innocent kids.

Elevated or alleviated?

Either way, unadulterated.

Complete and absolute,

Drink a case of you

And still be on my feet.

Here we are,

Little by little,

Ever so slightly,

Daily and nightly,

Forgiving ourselves

For all the things

Sonny said,

“the 55 bus,

incoherent lust”.

That’s true;

This is incoherent, unspoken, intangible.

We say nothing - that says everything.

I say,

“The 55 bus stops right outside your house.”

Or at least, I want to.

I look at you, eyes wide, and wait for you to infer meaning.

We don’t speak.

As I write, you say nothing.

(Am I writing because you’re saying nothing?)

For a moment I think to myself,

“I’m too old for this.”

The thought of you convinces me I’m not. 

But you? I don’t know what you think.

Sometimes I don’t want to.

Most of the time I don’t want to. (I want to keep it yellow)

I soon realise,

Shy, newly turned bodies

Writhe in the darkest of corners.

Seedy flat in East turned stage.

We perform,

We play.

Blunt text,

New phone.

Act disinterested,

Hard to get.

Hard to find,

Hard to know.

“In the end was it all worth it?”

I just wanted to see if you’d come.

I have two words:

Slim pickings.

On a Saturday morning in May

I felt like Daisy Buchanan

Or at least I told myself I did

I floated through a railway arch

To meet you in the dark

Amongst thunderbirds and cool girls

Strange boys and cruel men

A weekly party thrown,

Were you hoping I’d go?

I did. Four years too late too,

Almost to the day.

“Men and girls

Come and go like moths” -

This much is true.

I was only half betting

On ending with you.

Money can be thrown

In the air - you even

Have the house

Backing onto the water

Despite my efforts

And wishes

I did not will us

Into fruition

So I sit quietly in my room,

And think,

“This life. It could have