December 16th, Your Red Car

We were both almost grown 
but your hair was gone,

and I laughed because
I’d never seen your
forehead before and

With you I was
Jane,
Awake again,
because we drove
to a new place
before all the old ones, 
past our old school then
down Dagger Lane 
in the fog, at midnight,
when I had work at 8 the next day.

And I’ll remember that
night, after the turn in
your mind, because I
spoke of the scars on
another man’s
thighs and it was only
for looking that I saw
the trouble I needed to
see somewhere deep
in your eyes. 

And you’d play my guitar
while I played with your
spine, then you’d play
in the landscape you’d
made in my mind and
those orange
windows have people
inside them
so we’d walk among
them with marks
on the walls, they'll
show us which
big lipped child had
grown taller.

And then, another
Tuesday,
November 18^th,
my first day
of teaching and
the last time I’d eat
for a while,
you came
empty handed,
no petrol station
Coca Cola to place,
half finished
on the living room
table, and you said your
sister had already
known because
you  get tangled in
wanting to want
things -

you’ve known since

you've known me, you
don't want me at all.
Since that first day, a Monday, 2004.

He looked almost
like you did when you
were 15, long haired,
pigeon toed, 
and that’s why we lived out our
whole lives
in two weekends - 

I always thought
I’d be easier to
love when
there was less of me,
but now I count
everything,
even the coffee.

So I’ll throw away old clothes now,
because they don’t fit me,
or because I have 
one less reason now
for long sleeves.
You give me a good reason, now,
for long sleeves.