(a tribute to richard walters)

under the soft stage light
richard walters performed
a song called awards night
he’d written about elliott smith.
my heart ached quietly
for the ghost his voice carried.

sofar fairy –
as i call her in my head –
said i looked like
i was in the clouds,
living in the memory
of someone else.

his energy followed me
into the next morning at work.
half-stunned, half-joking,
they’d insinuate
my joy must have come
from someone’s warm embrace.

how could i explain to them,
that music and words
can whisper through your ribs,
settle in your chest,
and lift you higher
than any touch permits?

richard’s voice just lingered
like the aftertaste of honey,
like rain caught in leaves.
i carried him home in my pulse,
where elliott still lives,
softly whispering between
the notes of his guitar strings.

he kissed me
by the river —
soft, sweet,
almost right.

but he wasn’t you.
and he didn’t notice
that quietly,
our magic slipped away.

he sent me a text,
still in a haze,
wearing the memory
of my taste
on his lips.

as i read it, i cried.

because i wanted the boy
who broke me,
instead of the boy
who tried.

we met in a bar —
by accident —
i was with a friend.
we matched on tinder
a while ago.
yet, word by word,
you quoted my bio
back to me.
as if you didn’t care.
so casually.

we talked bad dates,
cats, the types we were into,
living sitch in oxford,
housemate gossip,
then silently judged some people.

my friend left, eventually.
we decided to head home.
you were parked at the station,
and i lived off botley road.

you didn’t mind the company.
i didn’t know you.
but i knew of you.
barely.
a friend of a friend.

then i found myself accepting
the lift you offered.

we were almost by my house
when you asked about my plans.

maybe i’d finish
a half-drunk bottle, i said,
with nothing else in mind.

you glanced over,
said you had one at home
you were dying to open.
extremely cheap.
probably vile.
saved for special occasions,
and improvised nights.

the spark was effortless.
as we got to my driveway,
you turned us around.

the ridiculous treasure
you had saved
was worse than we feared,
yet we drank it
until we forgot the taste.

the selfies you made us take
were the silliest kind:
posing with fake glasses,
bandanas,
and that cursed, stick-on moustache.

yours (bandana, not moustache),
wrapped around my neck,
pulled me close.
then you kissed me.

it caught me off guard —
the difference.
you didn’t need me to stay.
i didn’t hear you beg.
with the bottle between us,
we settled in your bed,
discussed programming,
reflection,
the act of meditation —
such an unexpected night to have.

as you drove me home,
you put cheesy pop songs on,
belting out taylor swift.
i noticed the comic strips
glued on the interior —
it was harley quinn.

i still remember all of it.

mostly the goodbye kiss
you carefully asked for
as i opened the door.
and the way our lips brushed
was almost like a dream,
because it was the first time
a kiss,
exchanged with a stranger,
didn’t feel cheap.

we weren’t really strangers
by the end of the night.

(at least not as much
as we currently are.)

i board the eurostar,
knots in my stomach,
anxiety clinging like static.
i may get charged
for the emotional weight
my heart and i packed
in my luggage.

then a guy across the aisle
mistakes me for a being
you can turn to for guidance.
his travelling companion,
anxiety, also had a reserved seat,
and soon, the four of us share
one nervous heartbeat
in carriage sixteen.

human panic in motion,
he’s vibrating with nerves,
scents of worry
seeping through his shirt.
but he calms me,
and eventually we both
drift into sleep.

we’re halfway there,
when we wake,
and rapid fires emerge
in-between the yawning.
discussing the speed,
the delay, the weather.
now, i don’t mind he found me.
there’s comfort in knowing
we can be scared together.

i was sick of being
put in a box
labelled, ready to send.

i looked up holidays,
knowing if i didn’t stop,
i’d drop dead.

but even the thought
of going felt too much.

still, i clicked complete.
seats reserved
on the eurostar.

anything else
than being the other woman —
the one people fall for
when their hearts
should be sealed,
not crossed.

i need to reclaim
some of my old self
i’ve lost along the way.
maybe that’s a start.

it’s got to be enough.

i was still there,
choking on my bitterness,
twenty minutes
after our session ended.

i felt awful. anxious.
he had a client outside,
waiting —
maybe also collapsing
under their own weight
they couldn't carry.

“look at the clock,”
i said. “let’s wrap this up.”
guilt eating away at me.

so he stood up,
reached for it,
and reset the time.

like it meant nothing.
like he knew healing
cannot be rushed,
because the minutes
are ticking.

i was warned
i'd fall for you.
stay away from him,
they said.
sweetie, he’s bad news.

i laughed it off,
thinking i knew better,
thinking, that this time
would be different.

i always loved a challenge.

three months it took
for my mind
to catch up
with my heart.
by then,
you’d already
moved on.