Twelve Months

Twelve months of not-an-ending
twelve months since the beginning of this
and what I thought I was going to miss
but has engrained itself inside my skin—
an extra epidermis.
Nobody told me there would be a friendship
like this. It’s something deeper than I thought
I could have at least
not without leaving as quickly as it came at least
not without it moving across the country at least
not without chats via Skype only at least
not without messages going unread messages going two days
three days a week claims of being too busy for me now. Not that.
None of that. Our time together is a light in the dark so much dark
deeper dark now than ever before. Our time together is time not like
an abstract thing but like a gift to be unwrapped and rewrapped
and set aside and to open and stare into every time I need it. We
are going somewhere brighter I know it because we take that light
with us. We are in the dark alleyways now but we will move to
somewhere where our torches don’t need to be quite so bright but
they will still burn and we will hold one each and recognise them every
time we walk towards each other on the street. We will always be walking
towards each other. We will always meet. I wanted to talk about the last
twelve months. I wanted to talk about the love that is and isn’t
the explanation that is and isn’t required
a relationship quickly defined unrefined and undignified easy and easy
and easy. And full so full. Full so full. All I can think of is how you have
changed my life for the better how I can’t imagine not having met you
how I am so lucky to be cared about by you. You make the hard softer.
You make the unlit bearable. You make me when I can’t see me. We are
always narrating. Guessing and reguessing pressing and re-pressing.
Knowing and unknowing and growing and growing.
You are the light and the light and the light and the light.


If you’re looking for me in a poem
I’ll be there
you might need to ctrl+F me
and once you find me
you might need to ctrl+F me
the way my brain searches for you
when all I want to do is touch you

If you’re looking for me in your house
I’ll be there
you might need to ctrl+F me
and once you find me
you might need to control and fuck me
put a hand on the small of my back
grab my hair with the other
lean in and kiss me like you’ve
been wanting to do it for years
you might feel you need to carry me
please do, take me
upstairs, lay me down on your sheets
and strip me, like you’re searching for
hidden meaning, finding space between
the lines, digging for subtext
it’ll be there

If you’re looking for me in your bed
I’ll be there
you might need to ctrl+F me
you might need to prop me upright
if I’ve fallen again
I might have fallen again
I might have exerted all my energy
trying not to want you
and failing
and falling
you might need to ctrl+F me


we write poems about the things we give to each other
and in turn those poems become things we give to each other

and the giving grows
and the feeling grows

and soon we turn into each other
the exchange of words tipping the balance
swapping a piece of me for a piece of you
reverse jigsaw puzzles until we are renewed
adding what we didn’t know was missing

and soon we turn in to each other
arms and chests shielding from the wind
cheeks tucked in, the soft touching
the soft yet sturdy enough for leaning

we are literal and metaphorical
familiar and undiscovered
comfortable yet tentative

we write poems to try to capture the nights
that have already slipped by, we spill ourselves
and then shy away once we have shown
these words we’ve grown, skin shed, flesh new

I read the words over, write the words over
wonder if I didn’t, then what on earth would I do
and without literary metamorphosis
how on earth would I see
that there isn’t much difference

between “you”
and “we”