This Isn’t Happening

I read the transcripts I was a half, sometimes a quarter or third, of and realise I saw Radiohead in 2003, with no recollection of it. I pushed you to make a top 5, dropped thick hints about relationship status – now, I’ve got Facebook doing that for me, and it functions better, except when strangers congratulate/console/penetrate me. With words, I mean.

The ones missing, from inbetween years, and the months I lived without internet in halls and the skirting apologies for almost-offences and the “don’t know what you mean, really.” But I think you knew.

A handful of voices on top of a Catholic fat, simple to slice through, heavy to suckle, and a phone call to cut it, and regrets, and the sort of indoctrination you don’t think exists now, but it does.

And I learned without you. And each learn was a similar fumble, with ankle length trousers looped with a belt in a bed with a duvet on top. And socks.

Transcripts miss the phone call months I didn’t record but I’d play back your voice from any time, any then old time if I had them, if you’d logged it, if I had. And I’d erase the guilt simply like a story I couldn’t write twice that’s deleted instantly clicking the wrong mouse button (back).

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