THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
I didn't write about your birthday, when I got too drunk and you took too many drugs and you almost made me cry on the walk over to Camden- you were cruel, relentless
And standing outside that bar, safely next to the friend I'd brought with me to protect me from you, I couldn't look you in the eyes, I could barely speak to you
And when we stood up to leave, everyone told you happy birthday, shook your hand- we caught each other in the eye properly for the first time that evening, held it for a moment, I rest my hand on the crook of your arm and sigh and I said, 'Call me tomorrow.'
We meet again in Camden in the morning, both still a little delicate, and we sit outside a coffee shop and I drink an iced coffee and you smoke.
You've gained tact in the sunshine. The conversation is impossibly heavy, difficult- both of us twist and turn every sentiment, bend it into a state of almost inevitable misinterpretation-
But we both know the score
I spend the rest of the day with you. At around 11, on the platform, I put my hand on the crook of your arm and I say, 'Tomorrow,'
And you say, 'Tomorrow, then'