365 Poems/96 Coming Towards The End (Rough First Draft)
Coming Towards The End
I haven’t seen the stars in months,
and the last exciting thing I did
was suck on a piece of Whitby rock
in the dark.
Before, I used to wish time away
so I could see that boy at the chip shop
again, and look at him all coy,
until he looked back at me and understood.
It’s coming towards the end now,
and I want to pull time back, tell it
to slow right down. Days can be as short
as a single finger click and be handled
in entirely the wrong way.
I can remember scraping hot flapjack
mixture off Mum’s wooden spoon.
I remember the way it would clag
to the roof of my mouth, and I’d
have to poke at it with my fingers.
I remember the pan she would use for it,
the stainless steel one, with no lid or handle.
I can’t eat flapjack nowadays. It set’s my heart
into a panic, and I flap and despair that death
will be coming soon, and I know
that he will leave with me on his arm
after giving little or no struggle.