Loser

Cellophane wrap or sealed pack or paper bag: clutch me. Try not to drop me.

It, this, crept like damp from the doorway until there was mould along the skirting.

I consciously partook in phone calls and friendings and 56,000 FB messages.

A lie would be I was absent for it. I was absent very little of it.

And now, history book months later, all I want is that wheezing breath next to me.

Hearts suck. Seriously. I mean.

hate you

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You Are Something

You drew a line with a finger, where the booth cushions met, said, “Don’t cross it, yeah?” I didn’t plan to, then, even as I edged closer. That was a test, a buffering at 68% permanently, no chance of an actual load.

You still sit across from the line, always on that side, to my right, and I’m usually first to move. Destroyed now I know what it’s like. Before, I relegated connections to a section in my head for fiction, religion and make believe. That third day I had to concede some times invisible isn’t absent. And now I’m absolute certain of it.

You’re cotton wool soaking me up. And each time a decry of, “Absence doesn’t fondness make,” is thrown between bottled beers, you raise a hand, and everyone knows what you’ll say without you ever saying.

Proximity. Who knew? Who really fucking did, though?

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Scratch

I had this dream, or it was like 5 dreams, in 9 hours sleep; you were scattered between 3am and 11, in fabric-like fragments, and each extra doze was a salt pinch of you, until I couldn’t close my eyes more.

You finished playing, and in the green room after, someone wanted a photo, so you stood on the ledge with the others. The open window was a straight drop but no-one was phased. I felt the outside air buffer you, and when they all got down, untwining arms from you, I felt you waver and, instinctively, pulled you down, took your hand even if etiquette said don’t. And that was enough to start it.

I don’t know who asked. Whose idea it was. But we said let’s spend some time alone, to see; we both agreed.

The rest’s a badly cut movie, jumps making the narrative incoherent, if incomparable. I trawled strangely linked hotel rooms, mostly empty. But, remember this: we kissed like a TV kiss, where you can’t but you kiss because the script dictates. And even if it didn’t, you’d do it anyway, because it’s a dream, so why fucking not?

And that’s the essence of it, like a retina scratch, not on an eye but the screen of a MacBook, so all the more serious. I’ve been looking at it all day. You’re not online. But you’re writing this shit too. I know that you are. Will you always be writing it, the way that I’ll always be writing it? Do the words urge?

make it

Point Match

It’s two words: match and point. I pick discrepancies up each piece I read. Whether you like it or not, I am your editor.

You got the volley right, the limbo, the way we photo developed until every picture was a little reddy orange, overexposed, ultimately unframeable. And endless.

So I ended it, quite unprompted. Except, do you even believe anything’s over which wasn’t before? That we’ll never really talk again? Because I don’t.

There’s always next week. All I need’s a pencil and a print out of everything you ever wrote. I’ll perfect you. That’s what I do. And you know that, don’t you?

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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 Don’t Remember The Total Conversation

Your name’s ingrained like Jonah in belly skin. There’s no script, or coercing, and I wish I’d remember more context, solid sentences, that tone resonated for days. But it doesn’t. And worst is to wake up, wonder if we meant any of it. Maybe we didn’t?

To call is the only thing better than feeling your pulse through t-shirt chest, super warm breath, stubble select. So I waste minutes; I have 7 left.

You wish other people had what we have. But what, concurrently, is that? Are we lucky or doltish? Will anything end how we predict?

I guess this is why taking notes in lectures is, like, recommended. Several of my organs would question if what I want is important. I know you’d say that it is. Feels selfish. Biased. I talk about tactics. My guilt is ten Hail Marys from alkaline. I’m basically acid. And that’s how June sits.

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I’ll Take Us Right Through From Sunrise To Sunset

I want to hate like a magazine misquote. The ingrained, un-heal-able stitch hate, there’s always a reminder of. I thought that’s what this was.

Lily Allen can’t win: offending somebody somewhere whatever it is she says and for every person saying I have a sound mind, all see-through Heisenberg blue, ten tell me I don’t and I’m not and what the fuck am I actually thinking?

Total privilege of being understood. How much I’d pay for, biscuit packets. I’m glad you don’t roll cigarettes, though it’s better than licking envelopes. The gum’s not gluten-free, you know? And neither’s my shower gel.

Domestication’s the death of me for un-obvious reasons. Because looking at you like this, is, insert adjectives here. Shit, I think all of them.

__________. ____________. ______________. ❤

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