That Story

Well the story goes that I loved him.
Like pears for cheeks, I was red
When he stamped a kiss on my lips
Underneath the door porch.

I harnessed myself, learned the ropes,
Climbed that mountain of a guy.
(Both contexts, if you get my drift)
My clutch sucked, my grip slipped,
The summit would drift, but I got to his level eventually.

Until I fell with him.

It was butterflies and butter wouldn’t melt on his eyelids
With him, they told me I had money,
And he was poor. A penny pincher for a Mother.

The stakes were higher when I left the kisses on the door porch.
It was sort of heartbreaking.
I struggled to crawl onto the steps of the plane,

Even my eyes locked onto that Algerian sun. If I could be blinded,
I wouldn’t know I was going back to England.
That story.
You know the phone calls were my dinner time,
I bit into the money I paid like steak,
And it would disappear.

I wanted to spit out the jasmine I could still taste,
Comb out the memories in my boiled head.
The headaches began.

And I was cheated.
I was cheated like anything,
Like poker, like a dead teenager,
Like jam, like a girl in love.
She was all there,
She even wore my shirt I left on purpose.
They all sort of wore it,
Like an heirloom of girlfriends centuries past.
They stared into that history,
As clear as watercolour.

If I could explain to each and every one of you now,
Age was no limit to the pain my heart drowned under,
Age meant nothing, as nothing as salt, as sand, as dust,
The face became as anonymous as a public toilet,
That emptiness rocked me to my core,
It came in waves,
It bashed me in like a bad trip.
I felt bloody.
The dirt in my teeth spread into a black smile,
I wrung it out so you’d know I was not feeling well again.
I had bruises ever-growing, like an August summer.
I had a garden growing in my lungs.
It was stuffed with roses,
Brimming with ice cold tears,
It was an ache so serious and so sure
That I drew my own coffin measurements,
And threw this drained body into the tub
And tossed my chest out like a pair of queens,
My tarot, my love bird,
My window, my bobo,
These words and endearments as thick as mud,
But with all the nourishment of milk.

It was hard to work out what to resent, or to hate.
Even stood in the bedroom after so many years,
My hollow eyes grew jasmine in the sockets,
Boarding planes wasn’t as heart-heaving anymore.

Waving was easy.
My arms, palm tree branches,
Goodbye to all that.
Hand me the car keys.
No, I’m not travelling with anybody else.

So the story goes.

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