I wonder if you ever say my name out loud when you turn over alone in bed
Or if you run to hide from the book I made you
My fingers dancing as I cut angels and paste them all over our
Dreamy, secret world of just us
I wonder if you ever wish she looked like me or laughed like me
Or if you write about her instead now
Pretending you did the write thing, because does it make you feel
Better about yourself that you dumped me over the phone.
I wonder if you ever regret it all and yearn to turn back time,
Or if you glug dark fruits and read Wilde without my image flickering into you.
I wonder if you ever, ever missed me.
I wonder if you think about me.
I wonder if you had said I miss you, I would have said it too.
I wonder if you have moved on as I have, holding her hand
In dark streets and awkwardly walking next to her side like a half-eaten piece of salmon
Flapping pathetically once taken out of water.
I’m glad I am not your blonde, manic, pixie, dream girl anymore,
Just there to fulfil your south west London smoothness.
I wonder if you would have swallowed me whole
And licked me out like an empty oreo packet and drained me with your straw
Had I let you feed off any more of energy.
I wonder but then I stop to look at him now and I am so glad
I no longer have to wander about wondering about you
Because I have found myself another wondering soul who instead wonders about me
And leaves me full up of sensation and wonder.
So, tell me.
Are we laughing on a slope so slippery?
Architects of our own misery?
Perhaps, our stars will align
And we will indeed be fine
Just as friends or something more
Because tell me you care, and I’ll tell you ‘encore’.
I’ll rewind our springs
So as though we could almost grow wings
And have those bittersweet moments one more time
Of your biting blue eyes looking into mine,
Telling me to use less tongue
But I tell myself to laugh it all off because we are still young.
So, tell me you wake up thinking of me
And I’ll tell you the same, and that she,
Or I are special indeed.
Write me letters and bring be roses,
And we can both realise that the vie en rose
Is not some lost ideal of bleached, braced teens dancing
Naked to open car radios in some lost past of time
As you can see, reader
I have stopped wondering now
For my pain stops me in the middle of the station
Staring at the orange clock
Paralyses me in the middle of a hurried street in Clapham
No faces clocking but merely one face glued to my working memory
His.
