365 Poems/209 Silence Lifted (Rough First Draft)
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?