You had come to help my mother move house.
We were pretending that you were just a friend,
because it’s hard to explain the desperation of your separation,
when you’re separating someone else’s whole life apart,
to pack into neat boxes,
where nothing is complicated.
We said we’d save it for dinner,
we’d tell her about us over dinner,
a far away dinner,
that we don’t have to think about,
every now and then,
we’d sneak off.
You were a rushed but romantic whirlwind,
on my childhood bed.
A tender tornado
taking my mind off all the anxious thrill of moving on.
I was ignoring my ex,
in my pocket,
ran up my screen,
across a picture of us,
that we had taken at Westminster Bridge,
where your hands had softly asked my waist
“Fuirich còmhla rium?”
and I understood
your hands were as sweet and sentimental
as the rest of you.
I wasn’t sure why,
almost feeling envious of the way you could look at me,
and see somebody you wanted to be close to.
It was that day,
on Westminster bridge,
where the wind seemed to pull us together,
giving your well spoken hands exciting ideas,
that I decided I would look at that picture every day,
keeping you on my screen,
that I could almost hear your soft whisper
every morning that I awoke without your hands,
and their exotic accent (well, it’s exotic in Kent).
all that being said,
you can imagine how annoying it became,
to see someone running up and down the happy memories I was trying to make.
I couldn’t even remember how his hands sounded,
and I certainly didn’t care,
so I put my phone in my pocket,
pretending that we were in a place with no reception,
so I could be received by the safe span of your arms.