365 Poems/209 Silence Lifted (Rough First Draft)

Silence Lifted

I miss how impossible you are

to understand first thing in the morning.


The best film ever made was

the first one I watched with you.


My heart doesn’t know when

to shut up. I keep glancing

round, but the walls snigger back.


We used to skin hours, eat the flesh

like animals, winter starved, then lie,

fat and relaxed, grooming each other slowly.


You’d gently tug your fingers through

my hair, the way you knew I liked it.


I remember when you said you liked

my lamp, that I had good taste in tables,

as I fumbled with your belt loop and zipper.


I used to think civilisation could burn

to ash, and I would not care, because

I was locked in with your name.


My limbs still remember you before

my head, and there is still wax on my pyjamas.


I still think of when we put blankets

over thistles, and fucked, with hiking boots

still on, trousers bunched around our ankles.


You kissed the breath out of me that day.


I remember the summer when we let

ourselves go dry, then drank lemonade

too fast and shared hiccups.


I loved your confidence in arguments,

how you divided my nerves up

so they were manageable.


When you left, you put out my spirit

like a cigarette.


I want you the rest of my life, smelling

of conditioner, smiling with your whole face.


No more broken orgasms, please.


I don’t need to fall for you all over again.

My feelings are readily available now.


Can we talk?