okay !

i message you as i drive by your house

feeling your presence keenly

in the tarmac and bricks that are so deeply yours

the privilege to associate these streets with you

is one i will so gently hold

and this proximity is good, i think.

to know you are alive and two streets over

is an ordinary blessing

and i am compelled to prove:

i know you

i love you

and in this moment

he’s not the girl he was

but he is holding her in his chest

and he wishes he could

french plait her hair

she was so proud

(still is)

with three strands between her fingers

and her arms would

ache

from holding them above her head

a surrender

a creator

(a coward)

and sure,

he won’t look her in the eye

but he’ll hold her

in his chest

suspended in the cavity

somewhere between his self-loathing and vanity

she’ll sit

with her hair in two braids

and the righteous aching of self-creation in her arms

it is summer, and i am rotting already

from the inside out

i’m clutching

i’m clutching

i’m not feeling anything

you have hollowed me, summer - cruel thing (!)

i have been dead for a year

(a year and a bit)

a different kind of dying to the one i am used to

dead in such a way that i didn’t notice

until it was over

dead like i miss you

dead like i miss how it was

dead like i wish we were girls again

i wish we were girls again

and my body was curved around your torso

in my spare bed

and we were holding hands

in the v&a