paddington – Sincerely, Jennifer x

Paddington reads the morning papers with a melancholy smile,
watching Mr Brown make tea in silence.
Gun fire greets the morning sky as it weeps across the capital,
and the bear pulls a marmalade sandwich from his hat,
biting in to the sweet nectar, and all the memories it holds.
He drinks his tea,
remembering his manners and making use of a cup rather than the pot.
Mrs Bird gently pats his head as she passes with a weary sigh,
and he prepares another sandwich, before softly padding through the house and out of the door.

There is a stillness that cannot settle,
interrupted by sporadic sobs on the street.
Bells will be wailing soon,
rainbows have crossed the sky,
and the Daily Mail is desperate to tell the world about a cloud in The Queen’s image.
He joins silent commuters in a busy but quiet carriage,
his paws tightly gripping the handrail until he reaches Green Park,
disembarking and wandering towards the towering gates of the palace.
Slightly crushed by the crying crowd,
he makes his way to the front with a polite smile for everyone he meets,
and he places a marmalade sandwich on the ground, among the arrangements of lilies that lay on the pavement.

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.

cherry coke jennifer juan 3
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. cherry coke jennifer juan
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.