I’m Clinging

Sometimes, disappoint was adamant and the refusal of dinner expected and I could understand it. I didn’t know Beyoncé, wasn’t the Michelle they thought I’d be, and my misnaming was someone’s fault entirely, although I cultivate blame between breakfast and finishing it, and there’s a list of the unforgives and one of the almosts and I didn’t live through the nineties to end at a laundry sort of a situation which has me ironing underwear and bedsheets, things which don’t need ironing, basically.

And the break is a crooked kind of a garden ornament in someone’s decorative yard and it’s accidental apart from the affair which is only a half of an affair because watching and words are nothing, like, literally, nothing, and if you could handle the evaporation, the way days are forgetable minutes into the next, then there’s not a reason we can’t be us. Let’s be us. Forget every finger-fuck which happened in head only.

Holding All The Fines

You’ll be accustomed to the distance by the time you read this, sure long distance can work and you’ll read advice guides to check and statistics will be frenemies you’ll use, disavow, depending on their findings, and you’ll want to prove normalities wrong. Each month will be an advent calendar kind of a wait but each chocolate will be self-bought and not reward but consolation for the fact you can’t do to each other what the people on TV do because the miles between, you couldn’t spit across them.

When you realise, temporarily the distance can work, you’ll wish that plotting was a strong point of yours, that you could throw a spell, or hire an assistant to make the transition simpler. Instead, you’ll dwindle until you’re not sure you love what you love or why you loved it, and what made the motorways matter, the train fares inconsequential in the first place. You’ll add to your list, ‘Close to my door,’ and wish that every man that you picked moved next door first so your father could vet them.

Eventually, all you’ll be accustomed to is a phone vibrating at the most sexless of times, a tease with a message like 😦 eliminating libido like there was some, and you hadn’t read an article on the pros of asexuality and the absolute commonality of it. Prevalence.

My Mother’s Only One

I reveal more in chat than when you accidentally insert your finger into my mouth when you’re feeding me a chocolate which they put on the saucer when you buy tea in Thornton’s. You think that this is a seductive move but your fingertip salt is a weird truffle mix, and makes me unsure of answers to later asked questions. The same question, asked in a chatroom, a video chat or just text, gets a different response. Then, there aren’t other suggestions from other people who don’t know you enough to comment but comment anyway because that’s their prerogative apparently and, then, I was impressionable like Vine Street cement, baked bread, black sand.

But in this chat, before the excuses I make on phones and in person, I basically say that I made a mistake in the lie that I told when I took back what I said really drunk to you. Because that’s exactly what I should have said, what I did say, and you shouldn’t have let me wrestle it out of your hands with such a simple Chinese-burn-trick. But you did.

So each intermittent year’s been an intermittent string of intermittently amusing messages on a messenger service, logged like a historical document, which only tells a side of the story, as history ever does. Who won?


Our love, if that’s what it was and we said that it was but I’ve found words to be take-back-able the next day or on the phone later the same day as saying them, was a snippet, compilation tape, best of, highlights, skipping terrible bits. But I remember them.

You told me to be sure but I never have been and I’ve eked out over-time in your bedroom, at your computer desk, in the knowledge it was hot outside and we should be out in it but we’d rather be inside instead. And if I had a gut feeling, I had a hundred of them, and so few days off, and tellings off.

I got gut feelings and tried to start sparks like girls in movies using Brownie skills, igniting fires in backyards and campsites. But I couldn’t complete a sentence past a film recommends.

And the missing conversations ache less because they’re metres closer to a restart.

You Had Me At Meat Tornado

All planned words, preparation, is pointless, because you can’t pep your breath up in time, if breath’s ever used to woo anybody. I can’t forget Charlotte licking the back of her hand on the shop floor, telling us to test our breath out.

Some people couldn’t give a shit if there are gods or better ways to live or TV shows that change lives or antiperspirants with better smells, more functionality. Some of us are sick, don’t know it, and some will die before they can cut out the bits which stopped working for us, which never worked that well to begin with, if we’re feedback form filling, honest truth (unless there’s money in it) time.

I get you to send me home like a doctor would, get me to wait for your call (like a doctor would), examine the back of my throat (like a doctor might, depending on symptoms). Some things are symptomless.

And my patience runs out on the bus ride and I re-watch every Tom Cruise film I have which, honestly, isn’t enough, isn’t, couldn’t be, and who’d have thought? And when you ring with your decision, scripted answer, declaration, I start, “You had me at…” and I don’t finish. Because you had me at.

Skinny Love

I’ve been in love before. I survived on Pot Noodles and scratchy Sex and the City videos, some of which wouldn’t play, when David left, and when Ben quit I dropped 2 stone. It was the simplest weight loss ever apart from, you know.

And I hope you don’t go but if you do I’ll be fine. I’ve measured the lengths for ‘getting over’, and ‘rebounds’ and ‘flings’ I’ll try and I’ll do if it means you’ll get grainy like a badly pirated copy of a cinema release or a shop copy of a book I could’ve bought new from Amazon and I’d really savour the wearing, absolute lack of wear.

Each time, I hope this love is it, and there have been about 5 true loves, 11 ‘ones’, and anyone that says they feel different to the last, they can really tell, they have certainty, knowledge, they’ve seen, I say, “Shit,” because no such thing, there’s no such thing, and I’d only ever say that in the bed of Brad Pitt, and then I’d be stop-gapping it.