365 Poems/207 Missing You (Rough First Draft)
I don’t like the way you leave,
back straight, hands tight on
the straps of your bulging rucksack.
I know you’re never coming back,
and I’m already suffering
from your absence.
I pick at pears in Tesco, testing,
checking to see if they’re supple
or solid. I go for the solid ones,
so I don’t need to interact
with couples again so soon.
I eat to keep my heart strong.
Without food, it would grow bone
dry, and shatter. I miss your crackle
glass eyes, strong back and forearms.
I coast the darkness every evening.
Wait, at the window for an hour,
before closing the curtains.
My sister says go back to Iceland
or Norway or fucking Finland,
or wherever it was you were happiest.
And I go on the Ryanair website,
and calculate just how much
it would cost to get to where
my heart knows how to speak.
But I close it all down quickly,
and navigate the hinge on
the window to let in the cold.
The sky is immaculate.
Stars hum and I lap air.
Underneath the duvet,
on smooth sheets, I trace
memories, and miss you.