The first thing I saw were
names etched on a desk, some scribbled, others neat,
with all the swear words under the sun,
and a blackboard smell in the summer heat,
In the proudest fashion my younger self learned, and begun
A lilt in my step, a mate tried to correct,
A cold that someone didn't expect -
an untouchable friend and nobody worried for me, nor I for the world
Till the rock music arrived and I was taken, again, by girls
But even then, I guess, there were poems
written on phones, predictive, prescriptive to I, who, enraptured but studious, was late to the chase
Yet still, poetry typed late at night outpaces my wonder, something in the way of furtive guesswork and blunder,
Will it still be a comfort to my eyes in ten years; to see my genome and phenotype described in each syllable and alliteration, chipped tooth all there to induce the process of remembering, the creative act intact
Before unnerving intuiton of my youth, rocked out of balance, and typos edited beyond the truth
Save ones scripted in the company of none - just the anticipation of paper and pen
For the girl who drank and ate upon my table, with my sense of humour, my heart beats still, still jumping, still knowing more than this interface ever will,
Even undercooked broccoli was not sneezed at until
I embarrassed at the thought of a petal of disaster in a perfect day
Each coffee was beautiful, each day a breath of fresh air, I never knew what we, of ourselves believed or dared
And now that we're over,
I think of her sometimes and gasp at those simple moments tucked away by recurring mistakes,
the best I can let go and
be done with the rest
A future untold,
A question left at the lump in my throat
Copyright ©️ David Bosworth March 2026
Mar 22
Mar 22, 2026 at 5:36 PM UTC
The first thing I saw were
names etched on a desk, some scribbled, others neat,
with all the swear words under the sun,
and a blackboard smell in the summer heat,
In the proudest fashion my younger self learned, and begun
A lilt in my step, a mate tried to correct,
A cold that someone didn't expect -
an untouchable friend and nobody worried for me, nor I for the world
Till the rock music arrived and I was taken, again, by girls
But even then, I guess, there were poems
written on phones, predictive, prescriptive to I, who, enraptured but studious, was late to the chase
Yet still, poetry typed late at night outpaces my wonder, something in the way of furtive guesswork and blunder,
Will it still be a comfort to my eyes in ten years; to see my genome and phenotype described in each syllable and alliteration, chipped tooth all there to induce the process of remembering, the creative act intact
Before unnerving intuiton of my youth, rocked out of balance, and typos edited beyond the truth
Save ones scripted in the company of none - just the anticipation of paper and pen
For the girl who drank and ate upon my table, with my sense of humour, my heart beats still, still jumping, still knowing more than this interface ever will,
Even undercooked broccoli was not sneezed at until
I embarrassed at the thought of a petal of disaster in a perfect day
Each coffee was beautiful, each day a breath of fresh air, I never knew what we, of ourselves believed or dared
And now that we're over,
I think of her sometimes and gasp at those simple moments tucked away by recurring mistakes,
the best I can let go and
be done with the rest
A future untold,
A question left at the lump in my throat
Copyright ©️ David Bosworth March 2026
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