I never claimed to know what I was doing, but I writ this a while back. Yeah.
chewed up in the choice of the move,
the season spits us out the other side like pips.
in search of a new life, we’re waving at neighbours
and stealing smiles from strangers; trying to make contact.
we relax in the anticipation that something will happen soon.
new rooms prickle with the heat and people speak with alien
accents in the street. what we do not say is stilted and when
she leaves every day it’s to stake a claim in something else,
performing to a crowd until she’s bought. (muted
by the mornings i stay indoors, until august is a
flush of hushed visits, unspoken agreements that i am not in.)
we’ve comfort in common until she doesn’t come back.
in the house of the man who fed me lines and called me delicate
i took a photo of two green chairs in the garden, faded and buckled
like couples breaking into each other, all the while thinking;
‘will i ever?’