A whole can of cherry coke,
ran down my throat,
as I tried to recapture the taste,
of our Friday night cinema trips,
where your hand was in mine,
and also in my popcorn,
and we were alone at last,
watching a world where we were possible.
In the dark,
on sticky floors,
we have been to Baltimore,
longing for each other,
in a little loft,
with a sea monster sized secret.
Who can forget that time we went to space?
I kissed the tip of your nose,
as it crinkled at the sight of alien afterbirth,
and when we were almost caught,
sharing a cell with “Woke Latin Legend”, Paddington Brown,
you held me close as the lights went out,
lighting the whole of London,
with the oceans you call eyes.
I drink my cherry coke,
but it doesn’t taste the same,
now that we’re out in this world,
apart.
The tattoo on your arm,
clear as day,
in the daylight,
belongs to someone else,
and I,
unmarked,
but unavailable to anyone but you,
must wait,
for Friday night,
when my heart will race,
and my cherry coke will taste like we are possible,
once again.
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