When I said “where do you live?”
I meant
“take me home.” It would seem
I still go weak at the knees for a cocky Aries butch
who does too much
in tradies’ trousers
cute specs and a cap,
with a fervent commitment to healing
and a bad habit or two. And when you let it slip
skiving on the bench outside the market in the lunchtime sun
that you were always the chosen
and never the chooser
I almost walked away.

I didn’t. Enjoy the poems I folded for you without consent, lazing on your couch in the afternoon heat, the kids home from school on the street outside
while you warmed honey, poured honey, cleaned.
And the Whitman, sent from paradise. And the mixtape. Thank you for strawberries and wisecracks, AI tarot, probing questions, songs of old and a glimpse of your soul. Thank you
for endless tokes on your gross banana vape
for Ani CDs
for your care.
Thank you
(on behalf of the ex you still love)
for Prince.
This heatwave romance and its soundtrack
brought me back to life, has me singing in the kitchen
has me singing yes and yes and oh and yes.

Yes and yes and oh won’t you throw me
up against the library wall at kicking out time
or lift me onto the market piano when they’ve all gone home, I’ve seen your arms
I want to kiss you drunk and laughing into my new bed
sleep it off in a tangle of sweaty limbs
wake and meet your skin again, your tongue, your fingers
bring you coffee, make a partner dance of eyelashes
and let hands do their knowing, your breath in my ear, black hair in my fist.

The morning after we didn’t get it on,
but ate 2am takeaway in my bedroom
and probably wisely
chose friendship instead,
I am premenstrually sleepy,
mildly hungover, pottering with poetry.
You’re out in the heat of the day
pedalling in pink shorts and braces
joyful rainbow-smeared fuck you to the haters
finding new family in this proud northern mill-town, your complicated home.

I was hooked the day you fished a bin bone for my dog
offering your name, flashing a Welsh tattoo
but dancing in the midnight hour
I knew you were a keeper. Some things are worth more
than a risky fuck. Heaven help me
ride the slippery slope of queer kinship
care and chaos and vulnerability
rage and tenderness
multitudes
curiosity. Here’s to not knowing. Here’s to trying, like a little prayer
to you
to me
to the beautiful mess we’re in
and to Tod
the streets, the market
the disco and the wild grassy tops
holding it all.