The Person Falling Here Is Me

This song weaves between films, tv shows and films until, ingrained, it plays Ben’s bed or Jim’s shirt and Mike’s hand and it fills every meal plate up and makes conversation whir, and stirs every almost whim, and could make anybody come, stay, would sieve any leavers out so that seriousness lingers. Linger. Which is another The Cranberries song. Six degrees and separation of.

Profile Picture

The internet’s a grown-up picture book except neither of us is grown up and his friends post whiskey bottles, not faces. And the drag back is the pristinity of his photographs. I plot the perfect reply and he says, “Nice hair,” but I didn’t do anything to it.

He asks why the fez and I lose the Doctor Who reference and he asks which one is me and I explain that the one girl/monkey combination should’ve given away but it didn’t or it did but sarcasm jaggedly translates and I’ll never know him, even if we meet which we won’t because there’s always more he could find out I wouldn’t want to hand to him, and the next says I seem fun and I ask how he knows and he says my expression is a cert and I say it was a moment and 99% of the time my face is a different contortion to this and he says let’s meet somewhere no-one will be and I say I don’t like walking and he laughs like I joke but I won’t go or come and no kind of chatroom coercion will work on me. I’m schooled. It’s 2012. Do you know how long we’ve had internet now? And what will our children do with it?


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.

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).