you saw the empty glass
just before i left.
the way you came down on me
still rattles in my chest.

you were way too harsh.
your words lodged in me
for years.
because you were
a drinking buddy.
i didn’t need you
to hold a mirror up to me.

“i know by heart,” you said,
“that glass will be followed
by another.
isn’t that right?

so can you promise me
when you get home
you won’t drink?
because tomorrow,
i will know.
you know i will.
and i’ll never trust you again.
if you lie to me.”

i didn’t drink that night.
not because i didn’t want to.
but out of anger.
because you were right.

sometimes, years later,
your voice still follows me.
you’re part of the past,
and it still haunts me.

i could do
with a round of tough love.
another of your harsh truths.
because i keep fighting these battles,
and all i do is lose.

sometimes
i need to remind myself
you’re my therapist,
not my buddy.
but man,
i wish i could text you.

i’m breaking
to pieces,
tearing
at the seams —

could you please
clear your calendar
for me?

got together before,
thrived during,
and deepened after.

the world had gone quiet,
streets hushed,
time slowed to a simmer.
we measured days in drinking,
and nights in being together.

that summer,
while you worked,
i found a passion
in building a home —
a craft i had overlooked before.

i baked with my heart,
and cooked with my soul.

my mother was stupefied —
i never, not once,
helped her in my life.
even the way i peeled potatoes
was apparently a crime.

but then,
i created specialties,
dishes from all over the world,
setting time aside each day
to warm your heart
with two courses,
and desserts.

that fire still lives.
i’m so **** good
at what i do —
because food is my love language,
and when i cook,
it’s all for you.

i miss the simple life
in the way we all do.
bringing water
from the well –
the blue one –
at every street corner.
collecting firewood
so the winter stock would last,
toasting bread on the fireplace
brushed with a garlic clove,
and salt.

i remember the signs
in windows,
people selling eggs.
creeping into the barn,
scared of spiders
and chickens,
but still collecting them,
while still warm,
and fresh.

we’d scavenge
at the edge of town –
never allowed,
but we went anyway.
swimming in ***** waters,
slick with chemicals
and gasoline,
we didn’t have allergies
to the world.
just rolled around
in grass and dirt,
not caring
what lay beneath,
or might bite.

once, we let the cat taste
the tomato soup
from my mother’s bowl,
while she was on the loo.
we snickered,
choking on laughter,
watching her savour
every spoonful.
we were partners in crime,
my brother and i.

i even miss the smell
of the old theatre.
its worn-out curtains
heavy with nerves
as we danced,
competed,
recited poems,
pretended to be
one of the great
figures of the past,
and lay on the cold,
hardwood floor,
covered in dust.

i could list
these memories for ages.
what it felt like
to be a child.
weightless.
magical.
curious,
and bright.
i wanted to grow up
too quickly.
when i should
have held on tight.

i write of heartache.
it's all i've ever known.
so if you want a poem,
you'll have to break my soul.

i started typing.
just a simple text:
i hope you’re okay.
but i was
too much of a coward
to hit send.

in between downward dogs,
my phone buzzes —
again.
and again.

for fifteen whole minutes,
i leave you unread.

you’re drunk, smitten,
with someone i know,
someone you spotted
at a gig.

you send a live-feed
of your spiralling heart,
ask what to say,
if the moment does come.

i tell you to try.
say hi for me.
talk about music,
the crowd, the energy,
the way the incandescence,
blurry but kind,
makes them look soft
in that lavender light.

and you do.
of course you do.
you take a leap of faith,
while i sit here
in silence,
finding a hundred ways
to rehearse what my heart would
but my mouth will never say.