That woman, I love.

Rich hearts live in the poorest places.
There isn’t much money,
So your morals are the currency.

A neighbour isn’t a stranger —
A knock on the door
Is an invitation to come and eat.
The whole estate is united
Against the powers that be.

Officers of housing and police —
Quick warnings of their arrival,
So we turn off the lights
And wait until they leave.

Unpaid bills,
Because they’d rather eat.
Council state of mind —
Credit checks mean nothing to me.

Our assurances
Come from the actions that we see,
Unwritten laws
Amongst family.

Summer holidays on the estate,
Playing in the parks from morning until late.
We all went to the same schools,
So it was rare to see a face that was strange —
And when a so-called stranger came,
They’d quickly get an invite to the game.

Young and innocent, all we cared about
Was your name and your age.
“Are you good at football? What position do you play?”
“Let’s have a race — loser’s in goal for the day.”
The juxtaposition:
Of living free, playing football in a cage.

Now it’s a shame —
I can never return to show my kids where I used to play.
They call it gentrification,
But they wiped our memories off the Earth’s face.
Friends had to move far away —
People I used to speak to every day.

Now they look familiar,
But I can’t quite place the face.
Best friends reduced to:
“What’s your name, mate?”

I lay a black rose for my old friend.
Old acquaintances ask, “How’s he been?”—I just say, “That’s my old friend.”
Time made the distance, life made you my old friend.
You’re often in my mind although messages never find my old friend.
So I drink to the memory, and leave a message in a bottle—for my old friend.

We used to speak every day—about nothing, about everything.
Morning laughs, late-night talks, memories stitched into the hours.
I never thought I’d look back and ask,
“When was the last time we said ‘Speak tomorrow’… and didn’t?”

It wasn’t a falling out, just a slow fade.
A message left for later… then never replied to.
A birthday missed, fatherhood never celebrated —
Not out of anger, just life doing the usual passing

I reminisce sometimes,
Catch a glimpse of who we were—
Our voices echoing in perfect sync
Now just silence between the words.

You’re alive, I know; well, I hope ?
but in a way, you’re gone.
Not buried in earth, but buried in time.
And so I mourn a closeness between you and I.

Still, when the world slows and memory drifts,
I raise a glass and nod to the wind:
Here’s to the bond that once burned bright,
Here’s to the last “goodnight,”
To my old friend.