we play two rounds of pool.
he beats me twice.
now the air between us
is nothing but teeth and heat—
and in my head
he’s already got me
on the table,
thirsty for every part of me.

he grins, asks
exactly what i’m thinking,
and god,
he’s right—
it is too fast.
a week in,
we’re breathing
nothing but each other.

so i settle into his lap
just to rest my head,
to counteract—
this.
us.

but his mouth
finds mine,
and the world
tilts open.

we were friends once,
until you shut me out,
angry that your lover —
the married one —
tried to take me
when he wasn’t allowed.

the blame poured on me.

but i begged you back,
forgiving him, and you.
call me naïve,
but i forgave myself, too —
though there wasn’t much to.

i still thank heaven
you left me sore and reeling
before my wedding.

i’d have hated for you
to show up, smiling,
immortalised in photos,
as a maid of pretending.

my phone was on silent,
and i missed his call.
“i called you by accident,”
he said, when i rang back,
“i have nothing to say.”

nineteen minutes later,
his sweet sound of nothing
was still on the line,
untangling his day.

he said
i wasn’t feminine.
he said it twice,
hoping the echo
would re‑write
my code
of not being lady‑like.

he came to the conclusion
we should stop.
i talked like a mate.
and didn’t fit
his narrow idea
of a woman.

and i told him,
i won’t fold myself
to fit his frame.
no one
gets to offer lessons

on
how
we
should
be
shaped.

(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.

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.