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.