It’s been a long month and I haven’t seen you half as much as I thought I might, half as much as I got lost in imagining.
The child in me is a romantic at heart and I’m tired, can feel the lack of the serotonin, of all the smiles, of all the love that I managed to use up last night when I threw them out in drunken handfuls.
And I’m writing poetry on the train, making you appear in the empty seat in front of me where our knees touch because of all the narrow spaces and the jostling of distance and we fit in there, the two of us, long limbed and long hearted.
I’m in reverie, can still hear the breath you laughed upon when I told you that your face was nice.
You were the most surprising act of bravery my heart effortlessly took.
I lift my head, feel your fingers under my jaw, hear the teasing sound your voice made of my shyness, the way it sounded like a Maccabee’s song, tasted like toothpaste kisses.
We’re tunnelled into darkness and when we come back out there is no we, a pen takes your place and I think about writing it down on the back of my hand, want to know you in that kind of way.
I drop the cynic, use the tracks to try out cosmic ordering, ask the universe for some parallel alignment.
I might have messed up the first time, you see,
by not letting myself completely free.
I’m asking for a second chance, because I’m not like the rest, I don’t travel on a circle line.
I’m bound somewhere, anywhere where I just hope I get another excuse to use your name.
