One Year

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Take me to memories made:
a pangea of lost causes, coming together to
find footing.
Bundled up to escape our cold pasts, 
but spilling secrets easily as drinking wine
vomiting our fears 
to funny little strangers.

Belt and braces on we promenaded
a circus troupe of snowflakes
melting together after four free mimosas
and the first time love would
could back and haunt us, I
held you two apart with tiny hands
Said: “Please, don’t fight.”

And the sun made everything radiant
skin shining like knight's armour 
in a kitchen surrounded by friends
or in your vibrant little den 
nervously, I waited,
and we would pose for pictures on my camera
to tackle the impermanence. 

And Oxford still conjures revulsion:
my overactive imagination’s cinema 
playing the same drawn out sequence
of inadequacy
in tandem with video tapes of
wet grass stroking my legs
smoking by the water
and waking up to sunlight blinding
binding,
the bed: a boat
outside: an ocean of possibility.

Take me away from the rest of the world,
from the dim red of lusty Amsterdam 
of creaking hostel beds 
and the itching paranoia of 
plasticine love and plasticine friends.
I saw evolution in Berlin,
where nothing closed and it only rained once
but would drown myself there
with rocks held tight in my palms, 
a piece of our history.

And by the end I was stretched so thin
that I was almost invisible 
and the sunlight melted my glued on wings 
I fell and buried myself in insolence
with worms on my tongue
everything I said was sour. 
Choking up hollow promises
or throwing stones
in our collective glass house
I didn’t care if we slept in the rain.

The only reason I exist now,
is because of a wedding lift,
a joint in my best friend’s bed,
drunken fight club too innocent to
leave a black eye,
and a text
after days of radio silence:

“I miss you,
stop being a cunt.
Please.”
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