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I understand
That it must have been hard to ask me to leave,
If that’s what it was,
And easier to tolerate my persuasive company.
There I was pretending hopeless.
Lunch, drinks and then onto dinner, holding on,
And desperate not to let go.
I asked permission to put my arms around you outside,
Against the wind and the rain,
Struggling
With the lost property gift of a pub Umbrella,
That embrace,
like drops spared from a desert well.
I trod upon hot coals gladly,
Steaming in the summer rain.
Some first impressions of how it feels
To loose the majesty and arrogance
Of youths easy come and go.
Finally, the weight of afternoon alcohol
Pulled away your patience,
And my anger flooded into the space it left behind.
I called you a Tart,
Furious at my stupidity,
Furious at you;
White noise where there should only have been silence,
Perhaps no worse than what you’d thrown at me,
But a sudden, Leaden, thoughtlessly public full stop to a vain,
Desperate Soliloquy,
Pride’less, hopeless, stumbling and short –
A bubble burst of bile,
And unforgivable.
All that remained of my glimmer to you,
In that instant in my feeble hopes,
In that desperate blindness,
Weakness and howl,
Became gorged and ugly,
Immobile, and rich pickings
For the barking beasts that tear me apart.
A remorseful sorrow,
Venting me deep into the river,
And you high above it as the eternal night,
Your phantom bird circling above.