You’re one of those amazingly indescribable people;
infuriatingly abstract and so intriguing to someone like me.

Like over-romanticised black coffee,
and being woken up by birdsong and dawn
after sleeping on your arm so it feels like a stolen limb,
a whole part of you is weightless, numb
and you never realised how heavy you were
until you tried picking yourself back up.

And you’re like new school shoes
and my lopsided ears that made my glasses,
tilt to one side,
so no one else saw the world like I did.

Like finding money in the grime,
of the sofas abyss, or behind the
loose tile were I’d hide gum
but then realising its counterfeit.

And yet, you were like the major C
but my strings weren’t tuned
and I left you flat.

You are like the final sunset of summer,
your profile burning in the bonfire,
the ash gluing to your eyelashes,
and your feet buried in the sand
toes peeking through
but already gone.