Why You Didn’t Call The Next Day
When you kiss a friend,
they leak out of the chais, cappuccinos, white wines & long island iced teas & camaraderie
past the milestones of recognition
where the light switch flicks on in your mind
& your friendship mode self turns on
and that feels like it would look uncomfortable
But it’s not
and you, overarticulate you, suddenly don’t have the words to describe them, garrulous them.
When you kiss a friend
they melt & ooze out of
soundbite swaps & barb-trading & last word chasing
into nameless feelings that run up & down your spine
and in circles in your stomach like someone else’s kids
that should annoy you
and they do
but you can’t help smiling
even though you feel foolish
and you wonder how twisted you must be
to call the absence of this feeling, otherwise normal
and how you ever got to here being this way
But that’s terrifying.
When you kiss a friend
they overflow across the fullstops & the time to meet
and show up in your poetry
& you don’t recognise them,
till you do
& then it’s like seeing your favourite sandwich
in a cobwebby corner of your garden
lying half-eaten with your bite marks there
– except did that really happen?
It must have but how odd for them to be there in this corner that looks forgotten because of the cobwebs but you like it that way so much you know how to move quietly without breaking the strands
so it is as if you aren’t even there
But you are and so are they
& you realise you’ve spent
the rest of the day imagining them.
And it’s already tomorrow
and the day after
and the day after that
everything has changed
and you haven’t yet caught up
Yeah, that’s why you didn’t call
Oh, is it already the next day?
