Thirteen years

When I was seventeen,

I was obsessed with a girl

I dreamt would make me king.

My god,

the insanity of standing by her

in canteen queues—

the air between

erupting

against my shirt.

The shock and clarity

of stealing glimpses

in her eyes

meant speaking words to her

was flames against the roof of my mouth.

Sarah. Her name was Sarah

and I never gave up hope.

Thirteen years on,

she was a memory

made manifest in you.

I was seventeen again

in canteen lines

and restless behind the desks

of classrooms,

staring at the back of your head

and feeling the air erupt

in the wake of your dress.

But this time:

a look my way,

an opening

and victory.

Thirteen years on,

touching lips with you

meant making out with Sarah

by the lockers

when all the other kids

were stuck in class.

I was seventeen again

but a king

who’d never quit on hope.

There you were,

there she was,

in my arms at last

on a Friday after school.

No shooting blanks at life,

no weekend angst.

Just the girl,

the stirrups

and that wild run.

As graduation hits

for a second time,

I can’t tell

if I’m leaving as a ghost

from the scene of a crash

outside the gates of school

or

if we’re splitting

for you're moving away

for uni.

I hope the second.

I hope to see you again

in thirteen years.

That open door

I’ve been angry at you,

have not been able to cry it out

for some days

—a baron dam

dug out and

flipped over

but still

not a drip.

You’d implied

you loved me more

than he

but

still

you’d left.

I’ve been angry,

have refused to know

the human in you

—have thought that love is mere feed

for reptilian truths.

But this morning I woke to memories

of when I’d chosen anything else

—anything

from random sex to plane tix—

over love.

Perhaps you’d run

like I had run.

Perhaps the truth was

painfully

human.

Perhaps.

In any case,

any way I can call to mind the humanness,

any way I’m able to cry,

means a way to recall

that anger puts a broken heart to bed

but love

helps it to its feet,

helps it to its pants

and,

though painful it may be,

helps it hobble

to that open door.