We Were Never Here

A year is easy to reach, and we do, without much thought. You cheat once, and I kiss a girlfriend I might have married, and I fight your father, and your mother says she’ll try and she tries and sometimes I buy her dinner or she pays because she’s the adult and I am, and it’s confusing, a little, and I’m not your teacher, and I teach you things, read books you read to keep up and ahead, and forget I can’t set assignments anymore.

And I wish we had deadlines, the ultimacy of exams, and I’d revise you until I secreted you even though I’d be the adjudicator brushing thighs at your examination table, developing paraphilia by association, the association being you. There are worse things to love, worse things, if you categorise things, if you can, and I do and your dad would say, “Don’t love what you love,” while fucking your friend Emma in the spare room on sleepovers you watched Dirty Dancing at for the first time, and Patrick Swayze, and dances, and Luke not asking; you never had a torso make you wetter.

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