I drove away
I drove away
In February I drove away from you and I didn’t put on music
because Spotify is simply a repository of recent memories
and there isn’t one opening bar
that wouldn’t bring me to my knees
and it’s a good four hours
and I am exhausted from holding it all together
and it will be Manchester at rush hour
and there’s a dog in the back who,
poetically,
arrived into my life the very moment you decided you no longer wanted to be part of it
and whose needs
are now my priority.

Not your needs
which
until five minutes ago
were my priority,
which
for 12 and a half years
have been my honour to help you realise and learn to meet while you returned the favour
the way a soulmate does.
Not your fucking needs
which
suddenly
sky-splittingly
earth-shatteringly
turned out to be my demotion from soulmate
truelove, ride-or-die, partner
– fucking partner –
to stranger.
Now you are free to ride and/or die alone.
As if you didn’t always have that freedom but instead had to lie and cheat and fuck about town like some newly-out babyqueer in need of validation
and only then come to the conclusion that
actually
you need some space.
As if you didn’t already have
the kind of love poets dream of.
As if our love couldn’t handle
me having a bad day while you had a good one
or the other way around (which let’s face it was most of the time)
isn’t that how love is supposed to work
you fucking bastard.

I heard that Andrea Gibson
succumbed to the cancer we had been reading about for years
and for 48 hours I was numb
because for 22 weeks and six more to get through
I am not allowed to reach for you
not allowed to send you
“Marriage”
or “Love Poem”
or “Maybe I need you”.
I think we love writers like Andrea because they show us how insanely simple it would be
to be a better person
if one could only pull one’s fucking finger out.
Huh.

“What is love if it’s not running straight for the bull?”
Answer me.
Answer me.
ANSWER ME.
Answer me when I break the rules to tell you I am staying. Answer me when I scream in the steaming woods on hot days after rain. Answer me when I whisper vows of commitment into Dora’s sweet haunches. Answer me when I’m coming again and crying again and crying your name at 5am again. Answer me when I’m out on the pull but want only your eyes to meet mine, but your eyes
your eyes your eyes
your
eyes
your eyes literally choose not to see me
and I don’t know where the fuck you are.

To be without you for six months –
the only torture worse than this would be seven.
The only torture worse than that
would be the end, which, you have carefully explained
is a possibility I have to live with
until you have gazed up your own backside long enough and are ready to confirm
one way or the other, whether you want
us
or not.
It’s July
you fucking bastard. And these are your needs.
Your fucking needs.
Your fucking needs.
Your fucking needs.