Seven years later
the first thing I mention is
how your glasses are different.
The barista, chestnut hair
and weak masked smile
is biding her time, for uni beckons.
I scald my tongue,
you un-knot the evaporated events
I never knew existed,
condense them into digestible chunks.
That boiling ring of honesty
like a blister in the throat,
to tell you I’ve filled my life
with farcical reveries, sleep
that stutters like a lorry in traffic.
A child, plaster-wrapped finger,
***** on a purple bottle.
I wish they’d stop looking over.
I would tell you but I treat this,
stupidly, as though a date,
our initial, perhaps last tête-à-tête.
You haven’t heard from them.
Exactly, I think, almost say.
Why would we.
Written: April 2021.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, earlier in the month. Feedback welcome as always. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.