portraits

"do you think I always like getting my own way?" you asked me, as we were standing close, like in the good old days, whilst going down on an elevator.
My immediate response, and the response I gave, led to all types of trouble, including us not speaking for weeks (months? years?!). I flew off the handle. I was upset you were trying to talk to me about how you behave with your new boyfriend. It was too much, so I lashed out, fought with you, and went home feeling sad.
However, if I had my chance again. If we could re wind from now back to that moment when you asked me that question, if we could move backwards up the escalator to before you asked that question and press play again, I would have acted totally differently.
"do you think I always like getting my own way?" you'd ask me, as we were standing close, like in the good old days, whilst going down on an elevator.
"I don't really want to answer that question, babe," I'd say. "Can't you see, that in this world I am living in now, you are my soft, comfortable thing. Whilst everything around me feels sharp, rough, course, spiky, pricked, it is only you that offers any kind of softness, or suppleness. I'm standing here with you and the only thing I can think of that would cure any of this ache would be to touch your skin, smell your hair, feel the softness of you face once more. The only thing that would make any of this right would be if by some chance I could feel the fabric of your clothes in between my fingers, or have the scent of your perfume float up my nose. And in the world I'm living in right now, where everything feels painful, you are the one thing that can make it right. And what you've just asked me has ripped a hole inside of me, and the only way to fix it is if you came close, stitched me up with kisses and words and longing looks. So I'm not going to answer it. Because I know you won't kiss me, or touch me, or even let me feel the thickness of your cardigan. You won't let me close, when closeness from you would be the one anti dote to all of this. So let's talk about something else."

whilst slowly drifting inbetween those two continents
(of awake, and asleep - thank you Donna Tartt, thank you),
my mind was also drifting between two poems,
which were slowly being composed in my head.
The first - inspired I think,
by that Will Young song,
or Lana Del Rey;
the second - about the seaguls
moving up and down on the waves,
just far enough out to the sea
to not be disturbed.
And as the two states - unconsious, and consious -
battled on,
the poems did too.

---

I can't remember how the other one went
but this one was about those smart sea gulls
sleeping on the sea
far enough out
to not be bothered by the break of the wave.
how did they know
it was the perfect place to go?

---

Dear Sophie,
not every poem is for you,
but you may think they all are.
You may feel things,
when reading my words,
that remind you of us.
Or you may read things and think
'this could only be about me' -
if you read them at all.
It would be best if you didn't.
Because nothing about them is for
or about or because of you.
Not anymore.

---

it's hard to articulate the difference
between using what we had
as an influence
and writing exactly about you.