Endless

I sent this Valentine, once, to this guy who didn’t know my middle or first name, who wasn’t going to. I used to think that a great loss but, you know what? It’s the tiniest ocean drop compared with the idea I’d never met you.

I wrote the lyrics to Iris like a song could say everything I couldn’t. He binned it after first break. My best handwriting next to a Mars wrapper.

If I did that for you, if we were in the same school year. LOL, I know, but for a second, music aside, your style, decade specific, and my hair, always Jennifer Aniston. People would talk, and they do, sure, but would you keep the envelope if I sent you something? Would you memorise each motif I write?

Because all of your words are better than literature: the stuff they made me study for four years. When mostly, you’re just talking shit. There’s nothing like it.

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I Keep Waiting

Expiration dates are loose and, like, wartime was tough, Mum says, not that she was there, and people ate tins ten years after, and they were okay. No-one’s going to blog about how brilliant old food was but it was better than nothing and that’s the sort of country this is: rationing’s ingrained like defects and illness developing slow like adaptations of books to TV shows, and Jennifer Aniston’s hair colour or, I guess, several colours at any one time because I can’t achieve that gold, no.

I wonder if we’ve a sell by, if we didn’t play out the exact arc of what this is, think we’re due a re-run for a singularly unacceptable blip. But some broadcasts don’t get a DVD release because the music royalties are too high, and when they switch in songs it’s never the same. Think you won’t notice, but you do, and half-fake is worse than full: a broad daylight cheat we’re not brazen to try.

But it’s not a repeat. It’s not the same for me. It’s rooted in a bagful of unrepeatable things, but it’s new, like a reboot but better because what reboot’s even good, actually? It’s like all those TV couples, dead now, you wish had met at other times and started then instead of fucking everything so spectacular-royally the first time. You think you fucked things up for me, even slightly; you didn’t. My medicine’s monthly, but don’t make me wait long like that. I can’t even take it.

An inscription in the front of a book in the charity: “To do something about this. When’s the time limit? Cross fingers, I won’t miss it.”

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