…And That’s Why I Drink

Your hand is closed over mine,
as we ascend the escalator,
avoiding the band aid on the banister,
and my sudden affection for americanisms.
It’s not a criticism,
but I’m in an awful position,
lobotomised by the way that your eyes,
are endlessly enchanting.

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We are escaping.
Ebbsfleet to Stratford,
say the tickets on my person,
but my heart is international,
angsting and agonising over my mistress,
Miss Australia,
I’ll miss you when you’re sick of me.

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My heart is intentionally international,
soaring to the sights of holiday shop windows,
when I am with you,
transferring from highspeed to tube,
singing Send Her To Me,
to soothe your underground anxiety blues.

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Drinking,
like Miss Diane,
on the overground,
to deal with the depths of my obsessional
possessiveness,
because the truth is,
this never normally happens to me.

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I’m sincerely sorry for being in love on TFL.

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As it happens,
it’s never this strong,
never so deep,
but I keep throwing myself down to the ground,
on the off chance that I can descend further into full on “Fuck.
I love her so much.”

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Hello,
it’s me again.
Selfishly,
I stand in the way of the world,
staring,
eating up every atom of my universe,
holding my mouth with my shaking hands,
so it won’t stay open,
in awe of affection in its true human form.
Stay true to me,
on the train,
our escalator escapades.

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Feels like I’m living,
in a love song,
orchestra on the overground,
night after night,
as long as you’re around.



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