I
The way cigarette smoke
curls around our heads,
in the brisk night air,
is the way I want your arms
to wrap around my body
when it’s 3am
and I’m crying
because we’ve had too much to drink.
But instead,
I’m left with an empty cigarette pack
and a burning sensation on my back
where your hands should be.

II
People say that the more you say a word
the less it sounds real.
It’s 3am again,
and I’m struggling to sleep,
because every night I wake up
by mumbling your name repeatedly.
And the more I say it,
the more real it seems.
And sometimes it seems so real,
that I start to believe
if I open my eyes
you’ll be here.

III**
There are so many things I want to say to you
but I never do,
because it’s better this way.
For you to not know
about these poems I write about you,
or how I can’t listen to that song
you showed me
without thinking of you,
or how my fingers yearn
for you delicate skin.
I’ll never mention how many beats
my heart skipped
when I saw you with someone else.
Because I’ve learnt by now
that some things are better kept a secret.
But maybe
I’ll reach for my phone
to tell you
that I’m on my sixth glass of whisky,
and it tastes like you.