Today I felt.
A smooth,
A loneliness of sorts.
And I ask of the Unknown:
Is it you?
And I hope you miss me.



You tried to tame this wild life, and it fought unfairly, as feral things do.
The current was rough and the tide consumed you;
Discarding your remains in vomit
and shame
and assumption.

And one day a stranger called you from the sky
or the soil
or the sea;
And you were warm on her skin;
And you sang her to sleep.


I fell and I landed and the crash mat knocked all the air out of me. I swore and you laughed and dropped down onto your knees next to me and those big blue eyes refuelled my empty lungs. I swore again, although for a rather different reason, and you offered me a hand. You pulled me upright and pulled my head into your chest with both arms as I remembered how to breathe.

The smell of you was chalk and sweat and old rubber shoes and something else uniquely yours, and I counted each dose of it by the metronome inside your ribcage. As my breathing slowed, your grip loosened and your palms stroked my shoulders in a smooth, uninterrupted rhythm.



You pulled me to my feet and turned to face the wall, adorned with a rainbow of little rocks and numbers and scuff marks.

“Well quit slacking, then”, you said with a masterpiece of a grin painted across your face and I said I’d race you, and you gave me a slap on the arse and I gave you a punch in the arm. And you won, but when you looked me in the eye to gloat then I did, too.