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?


Courtesy (LOL)

I text you purely in a professional capacity. Not that my opinion’s headline important just, sometimes, if I think a thing, I got to say it out loud, before it disperses. And your story felt like my heart was a beehive and honey was ready.

I realise in the not talking stage that we’re in, I shouldn’t exactly text you or call, even if my heart/head are a situation of constant “fuck it”. I should exercise the restraint Guides taught me, those church cheese suppers where I just drank water, ate crusts, for 24 hours, and this somehow proved to god and parents I’d got like total gumption.

You know what? I do. I’m steely. Except every person I know looks at me like paper with a misprint on it that they can’t fix, might as well shred and start over.

You don’t look at me like that. I don’t meet your gaze often for obvious reasons and even in the same postcode it’s a tricky prospect. I’m pretty wordless about it.

But your story. I liked it, so much.

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There Are No Templates, Paradigms or Rules

I’ve lived my life by rules. And it’s actually easier. Even if you break them, return to form’s straightforward, repent appropriate, guideline for what’s right and works; socially acceptable.

And shedding those rules is like dying hair for the first time. Kind of cray cray. Until it’s done, then it’s, like, fine.

It’s because of the chaos. No-one knows how to sit comfortably in it without an existential crisis, most of all you. I mean, fuck, yours was when you were ten or something.

The person paid to solve my problems says, “You do what you think you should, but what do you want?” like knowing that is actually the answer, sessions will be over if we can just pinpoint epiphany.

But to want is complicated. I sit in it a second longer, waiting for the change, the new season’s styles switched for the mannequin’s garment sale. I wait to not want you.

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In the back alley by the bread shop I saw you. I pivoted like they taught at band camp, netball, shuffle walked like a sixties’ zombie. You were out the shop quick like an alarm was going and everyone forgot to pay. I caught your eye as I thought I wouldn’t when before I’d been sure I would, like magnetic leads to laptop connectors, asexual. Your nod was condolent, like someone asked if a film was good and politeness forced an answer. I asked your back if you wanted coffee but you were past me, heading to work or your wife’s or a girlfriend’s. You were plumper like a first generation iPod; I don’t know if you are, as you’re pieced from hearsay, other people’s photos on Facebook.

I thought that was it. The agonised chance slipped like trying to spot myself as an extra in the background of shows on terrestrial. But I saw you later. I found where you worked as they led me. You weren’t unhappy to see me; you kissed my cheek like we were family. If we’d fucked, we would be.

But we didn’t, did we?

It was nightclub busy. I met colleagues, you were happy like when we watched 300, the bus station kiss, solidly better than daydreams. You were complete like a charity shop jigsaw: surprisingly, and I couldn’t be happier for it. If I’ve one wish that won’t be it, but it’s the second or third, the back-up present if the one I want is out of stock, continually.

We said we’d get coffee, drinks. Your friends talked like I’d seen them last week and five years of shit, regret collecting like junk mail behind the front door in immovable heaps, or social network friends’ lists, hadn’t happened.

I came back and we kissed like forever. Commitments since were interim roles in other films which didn’t make a top 100. And I’d made it my mission to watch every Allen, Brief Encounter now duffle coat marred, impossible to separate from you, like food cans when the ring pulls snap.

This was the start of a series, season, a show which would run for five years, six, or four, its cancellation creating online petitions, campaigns, and Bible pain in which hope’s there but cracker thin, wavering like an ombré dip dye. And I love.


Romantic Eleven

I idolised.

Bible knowledge cursed it. Jesus: boyfriend, best, only. You smoked more than he does. Smoke. Did.

Replay gagged.

When someone wants you back but they leave it like literally 6 days late, when you’ve agonised about the move on, haven’t fucked another yet.

Lick tips, cigarette butts, his mixed with Terese’s, Bill’s. Guess. Ingest like Smints.


Never Ever Ever Ever Ever Ever Ever Ever

Once, I ended something and meant it. It was final like a bin day crusher. That shit’s destroyed whether you pull it out the truck or not.

I said goodbye three times – learnt rules from the internet, that post-three’s harassment, a legitimate police reason.

But YOU put me on the bus, kissed my forehead creases, not top lip, tongue. Said you’d call. Didn’t.

Which is why, five years, no break-up book pepping the right response, like, “You’re a fox. And better than that.”

No guide, mutual friend, cheat sheet, or memory like a Wikipedia entry logging every inch of the happen. Nothing to remind why not.



I regret unregrettable things, like when I asked you to come after work to the cinema and you said no. I can’t change your answer, however many times I go over the word in memory with a blue Bic.

Memory is a shitstorm, makes me understand lobotomisation, because clean slate. I wish my perpetual state was not knowing you, to never have known you to the millimetre, the tailorable inch.

If you ate hearts, I’d be okay with it. I’d be meat, then, sustenance, have made a difference to energy levels, made your synapses fire like one time. But you don’t eat them. You don’t even excavate them fully. You’re a blind operator, using your lighter to torch-guide, and your fingers to detach ventricles, unsterilised. I don’t have a number to ask you why.

Butcher. Come back. Finish what you started. Marry me.

Hollywood Ending

Auditorium Moratorium

Heartbreak’s the making of you. Get out of bed lacerated, social media fails, he/her/it a figment, dark pass on Halloween, live life with a chest hole, learn breathing – panic’s made Poundland from good lungs. Write a play, excavate; you can’t autopsy ashes. Not everything’s repeatable: Disneyland’s boring twice.


____ Buddy

Movies are misleading, make it seem like there’s a point in everyone’s life they sleep with a friend, that they end up together, that this problem in general fills the space of a ninety minute film, which converts to six months real time, unless it’s Linklater, Allen, or Burns.

Even if we’re allowed discretions and I have it on authority we are – forgiveness is a sorry away – life’s more awkward than Natalie Portman, not polished like Timberlake. We’re not attractive and slick yet unlucky in love. We’re just unlucky. We don’t compulsively fuck who we know because they told an awesome joke once, they notice us lose weight. Or when we do we call it ‘mistake’.