365 Poems: 34 – The First Day Of Spring (Rough First Draft)

The First Day Of Spring

I ask what’s up.

You say you’re waiting

for a pair of leather trousers

to go on sale in River Island,

and you’re getting impatient.

 

I say it should be difficult

to be sad on the first day of spring.

Your entire body squirms, you wriggle

away from my arms and torso.

 

You scurry to the other side of the room,

near the window. You put your hands

on the dirty glass and sigh, like the world

is doomed from today.

 

I stay where I am. I tell you

I dreamt my parents were running

from werewolves. You laugh

at the ridiculousness of it.

 

I don’t say I woke up sweating

and scared. You don’t need to know that.

You’re not in the right place to know that.

 

I make you hot tea with milk and sugar,

but you want to fuck, so leave the cup

to get cold on top of the TV.

 

One orgasm each is not enough.

You’ll put the kettle on again

if I run out for more condoms.

 

I drive past that charity shop

where you used to volunteer,

where you bought the wedding dress,

plastic sealed, trim still clean.

 

After tea, cinnamon toast and sex,

you tell me disaster stories about the Arctic,

while stroking my forehead and tugging my hair,

all in the same movement.

 

I talk about tomorrow and how it

will be different from today.

 

Your skin smells of apples,

and when you finally let me kiss you,

I can taste cinnamon and salt.

 

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