I used to take the long way home,
Just to prolong the feeling
Of being on my way to see you.
Maybe I mistook anticipation for joy —
Footsteps propelled forward by the sound of
Aretha Franklin’s voice and the promise that soon
My cold mouth would be kissed.
I note the subtlety of other small remembrances;
Spraying my wrists with scents of peach and jasmine,
Brushing the taste of the night off my tongue,
Stepping out onto the street and wondering if I looked
(with my flushed face encased by earmuffs)
Like a girl in love. But now
I walk up that self-same hill
And the grass has just been cut
And my jumper is redder than the night
I opened up to you, redder than
Christmas lights, or carnations
That I buy from the supermarket.
And later, after I wash my body, when I press
The towel against my face, and I turn on the music
I want to listen to, I realise that all the parts
I loved most about us, were me.