We would we ever have a picnic again
and spill our cans on the uneven floor
of Victoria park.
We would never sit and sweat
and wonder listlessly about dinner.
Never indulge each other’s petty dismay,
balk together at the everyday,
laugh at the inane,
share a trove of arcane whims
and douse each other in the sticky,
the sickly, the sublime and the sour.
There’ll be no one to guide to me to the toilets
or through a menu,
I’d never be entranced at your dancing top lip
or when you build a fire.
What happens when you don’t realise I’m ignoring you,
or I feel the need to stop deploring you,
if your green eyes cease to be the cosmos?
And my book collection would half,
I’ll stop being so shy,
and I’ll never know that stillness,
buttressed, on your chest, circling the tufts of hair
as my other hand paws your flexing arm
as you scroll down the page.
My decisions would be my own,
my downfall my own,
there would be no more interims between you and I,
no next times, no resolves.
We’d never see the islands of Croatia,
never be stranded for poor planning,
never while the waiting away by
sharing stories of how we live and how we see.
Will we never, finally, meet the sea together?
Will it be like that time at the ponds on the Heath?
I read restlessly, waiting to see
you emerge in the silver briefs.
I’d always be waiting,
immersed in grief.
Edited: 27 April 2014