when did you start loving me?
can you pinpoint the exact day
and time, the particular thing I
did to make you look at me
differently? I want to know
exactly what it felt like then,
exactly what it feels like now
that it is familiar, now that it
is normal. Show me how you
see me and we will compare
notes – reader interpretation
versus authorial intent.
The stormy bank holiday when
plans fell through so it was
Scrabble and a fry up, lazy Saturday
afternoon with my legs outstretched
and your half of the sofa reclined, your
heartbeat reverberating through the
backs of my knees as you snored and I
watched easy tv
Further to my last post, this is my attempt at writing something cheerful. It’s kind of happy and unhappy at the same time, but at least it’s some sort of transition, and I’m happy with it. I love being able to be so honest in my writing and share it with whoever comes across it.
Happiness can come out of bad things,
you just have to squeeze the bad thing really hard
and look really carefully at the mess that’s been made.
It might be hard to find the happiness,
but if you don’t at least try to look
then you’ll never have a chance of seeing it at all.
Since I was given my bad thing I’ve spent a long time
turning it over in my hands, putting it down,
picking it back up, staring at it from all angles,
so now when I look at my good things they look
even better than they ever have, and I feel extra glad
that I have them, but at the same time extra scared
that one day I won’t have them anymore.
My appreciation is love, wrapped up in terror,
wrapped in a heightened sense of the mortality
of everything and everyone, but essentially
it’s very warm and soft with a hard, tough centre
made up of too much knowledge of the world.
And I say I feel 17 instead of 27, but sometimes
I feel wise beyond my years in ways I never wanted
but at the same time am grateful for,
like I’m grateful for [you].
Written on Saturday 20th September, 2014 at 23:54
