Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Life's a *****,
And so are you.

Our conversation began playfully, as they always did. Your dark hair was shining in the sunlight, and I wondered whether I'd made a mistake.

I wondered what I'd found to dislike in you, with your witty banter and your light, teasing tone.

I wondered why I'd done it. I wondered if I could go back, if I should take the blame for something I'd thought was your fault. We all make mistakes, don't we?

When I was a child, my mother often read me a fable about hobgoblins that lured travellers into the peat bogs during misty nights. They would wave lanterns and promise sweet things, such sweet things, that the travellers would lose the path and follow them. She would kiss me goodnight, and tell me not to listen if they cam calling.

My brother and I would lark around on the mountain ridges with sticks, pretending there were lanterns hanging from the end.
Come over here, it's the safe path, my pretty, just follow my light - All accompanied by ten year old laughter and the sparkling eyes that I just don't have anymore.

You promised me sweet things.
You promised me laughs and lightness and endless summer days. And when you pulled a ring out of nowhere I thought that it was all paying off - I could see my life mapped out.

But safe isn't that same as happy, is it?

Safe means banter that never dips into the darkness that swirls just below the surface. Safe is lying when you asked if I was having second thoughts. Safe means not mentioning the lipstick stains - just trying to coil you in tighter, to make myself that little bit more secure.

Happy didn't play a part.

The silly thing is, I never thought that I might be unhappy.
It only occurred to me when my friends took me out to celebrate my engagement. I saw a couple sitting, only their little fingers linked. I watched them, and realised that we would never do that.
Could never do that. You showered me with over the top, public kisses and affection. You told me you loved me, and that was supposed to be enough. You told me you loved me, you told me you cared - but it wasn't water tight, was it? Because when push came to shove, you were never there.

When Meredith's funeral came, and my face was streaked with tears, you were nowhere to be seen. We were getting married and you couldn't come to my bestfriends funeral? That was heartless. That was so, so heartless.
And I lied for you. "He's ill. He wanted to be here".

I think I realised then. That you were my hobgoblin.

The conversation began playfully, but when I reached for my ring and slid it off my finger - it didn't stay that way for long.

I'd never seen you so angry. Not heartbroken, not sad, not confused - angry.
And you were sick-minded enough to try and make me feel guilty. And it worked. Your face still comes to me, eyes wide and pitiful. "You're not actually going to go through with this, are you?"

And yes. Yes I am.

Skinned knee, tree-barked knuckles,
fights in the long grass pal.
Friends so long that we've our own,
private language
(which renders these public outpourings
largely irrelevant)
and can go years, now,
with no contact
yet never really be apart.

Last Christmas we hooked up,
marvelled at the passing of time,
and you recalled that the last time we met
I gave you a book of my poems.

"Did you read them?" I asked,
and brilliantly, unembarrassed,
you replied:
"No.  I looked at the first one,
saw that it went over the page,
thought: 'Oh, that's long -
I'll read that later,'
but I never did."  
And we laughed uproariously
as I seldom do with anyone else.

But I know
that long after every other copy
has been thumbed ragged,
misplaced,
passed on
and lost
your copy will remain
pristine and safe
on your shelf

Because although you have
no more interest in poetry now
than either of us did at the age of eleven,
you'll look after it
because your pal wrote it.