You only left the office
thirty minutes ago,
the tube’s atrocious at the best
of times, the worst of times
nightmarish, you say, I have already
bought us drinks and aren’t
the prices going up all the time now,
yeah, but it’s a rarity this, I don’t even
drink that much, Christmas,
barely touched a drop, talking of which
did you have a nice one? Yeah,
not bad, I say, back in the country
with the family, socks
and Boxing Day board games,
that period between the 25th
and New Year’s so odd isn’t it,
I nod yes, ask if you made resolutions,
you nod yes, sip drink, yes, might
do a half marathon if I can rope him
into it, oh that’s nice, three years
you’ve been with him now? Almost four,
a miracle, really, but I do love him,
I’ll bring him next time, he’d be here now
but he plays squash on Thursdays,
ah never mind, there’s always next time,
next time! You say, wine-in-mouth,
we must do this more often, sure,
I reply, knowing this,
knowing nothing.

The summer Irish breeze
feels just like you did
during those cold winter weeks
when my extra pounds weighed heavy,
when the snow smothered trees

Walking faster, then you ran
left me with nothing
but a car bomb and a pen
now when I look in the lake
I see your face
and it dissolves into sand

do you still look for me?
up in the pines
if the wind whispered, “it’s she you need”
just wander north, follow the sky
to the Irish countryside
and feel me in the breeze

You're the one who suggested
the park picnic, obviously. We got the food
from the M&S at King's Cross after you’d arrived,
wearing the bracelet I'd bought you
for your thirtieth half a year ago.
You really didn't have to. I knew that,
but did anyway. Happy tears flashed
in your eyes. In mine too.

Although we both know, we ask
how we've been. Much the same as always.
Work colleagues fancy a drink
on Fridays - it's a pass. Skin’s breaking out
again - it's hormonal. Turns out we're both
reading Emily Henry because everyone else is.
Falling into line with the masses.
Bookish FOMO, you say. I emit a giggle at that.

A group of others play football nearby;
tote bags for goalposts. I doubt a wayward kick
but I move the share bag of cheese
and onion closer to my crossed legs.
I almost don't hear you ask really better now,
I worry you know. I know you do but again,
my throat becomes clogged. I never tell.
The light licks your shoulders and I think of drinking
the sun one day without rosy blotches
on my skin, heartburn on the hour, every hour.

Half-mouldy stalks, some hunchbacked.
Graveyard of street lights with blown lamps
or yellows, faded, fizzing into expiry.
That is all for the year. It is over now.

Bramblings navigate the snow-drenched fallen.
Have they known the illuminations?
Scuttling, inquisitive with seeds in mouths,
alive between scrawny, spent matches.

You've got yourself a cold one from the fridge when I call.
It's April again and the clocks changed again
didn't they and I haven't heard from them
in months now. I think they're all caught up
in their own personal knots or weeds as the time’s gone, going,
that hour away to the clouds. Those I knew I wouldn't know
now in Marks and Spencer, the multi-storey. Any memories
like puddles, warped. They, too, going to the clouds. It's lighter
in the evenings but much is the same; the chickens
with their sore throats, cheers from a distant football pitch. Something
is different though. Indefinable. Condensation on a window.
I agree, you say, as I hear your wife's muffled
voice in the background.

at what point did we shed
our skins, drunkenly flutter from young
to young adulthood.

can't get it back. it's like catching
snow, blank and gone before morning
but we'll keep our eyes open

even in the mist for
a glitch, a blur of our former selves
in a shadow, a guttural voice, maybe

your own that says 'when will you
move on from this.' Oh your tears
don't taste the same now but

the television's still on.

The skies were clear the day after he died.

I peeled off my clothes by the river
and watched the water breathe,
folding into itself like a chest wound.
It trembled at my touch,
as foot became current,
kissed thigh and naked breast,
warm cheek and curled lip.
The water was soft
and the world sighed beneath me.
My skin was built of goosebump
condensation.
I floated on my back and my body became the water cycle.

Evaporation is just another word
for rebirth.

I have no memory of breath
till we kissed
now each breath recalled
spoke of you

each moment infused
with airs of your inclination
your unfolding sigh
filled me

kiss me
once more

your lips on mine
breathe into me
my last breath
must be yours

till I return it

I've been living under a spell for so long
A lying backbiting little runt of a demon
Who points out all my faults and humiliations
And throws them in my face at will

I can feel my strength being drained
And it takes all my focus to redeem myself
I say to my soul, I am innocent
Compared to some, I am a saint

In each flashback or vision I have
The demon is there to laugh
My memories are a mess of truths and lies
Time distorted my mind to the events of the past

We are living through trying times
We are at the cusp of a breakthrough
I will be holding my post
Even if I must stand alone

somewhere between the drink that burns my throat and Anderson Paak's voice, i find my thoughts drifting to the same place they always do