I like to think I’m special to you, although
I know you have so many special friends
here, in the dark heart of the year
when even the neighbour’s rowan
scrapes against the window, plaintive,
with that sound everyone hated as a child.
What days I have seem shorter than ever
and all my jackets are unsuitable for any
weather. Far safer undercover, hoarding
lamplight, paper, the memory of lavender,
as the tiny seed of you rolls in my palm
or catches in the throat, ignites a radiance.
Still, you make me sick. I love you fiercely
in secret, like all the others
too old now to be called girls.
I wish you didn’t give them what you give
to me, wish you weren’t given
so freely. Last night in the dispensary,
I watched a woman shake her red hair
loose – she made the queue seem elegant,
passing with her paper bag, her smile
that let me know you’re also hers
That once, at least, you made her feel
good too. Go on. Admit it. Didn’t you?
