Anarchy, that’s what she was.
Embodying impulse and disruption,
Equally subversive and unapologetic:
A revolution.



He’s kneeling on the ground,
at my feet begging to have me –
His naivety in needing to touch;
The power I hold in saying ‘no’.


Waste no time;
Control the impact,
Retain self-respect.
Sadness won’t render you unstable;
Give yourself what others can’t.


If I could have my way,
We’d never leave this room.
Your face under forts we made;
Just me with you.


A holiday together:
To drive up north in a passenger seat,
To rest your hand on their lap under the table.
To have someone want to sit next to you,
Just as badly as you want them to be there;
What does that feel like?


The adversity of divorce showed me strength.
My stepfather standing with roses each Valentine’s Day;
His unshaven face tickling my cheek as he tucked me into bed;
How he accepted responsibility of an entire household,
and didn’t ask for anything in return, even now.
I am the product of his love.


I want you.
The messy, insecure you.
The angry, defensive you.
The lonely, distant you.
The scared, worried you.
All of you.


In the process of leaving her,
I hate knowing you’re capable of it;
of changing your mind when it suits you best.

toi et moi.

Don’t write about this, he warned.
My silence wasn’t concession, it was speechlessness.
Could I write about the first time I saw him? The back of his head at a train station in the middle of Grenoble, and each day after that in a series of rapid clips: the bar, the park, the kiss, the hang, the game, the lift. Nonpareil? A word can’t describe him. I was wrong. I could write about how I have spent every day since that last day waiting for the next one, and articulate how I don’t love him yet, but I know that I could. How scary that feeling is – it’s taking another week apart, and both of us not lasting a full day: it’s Sunday dinners when we’re seventy: it’s him basking in the silence he playfully asks for now, but one day remembering me at twenty-something, loud and curious: it’s when his hand finds the small of my back as we fall asleep: and it’s reminding him he’s my best friend.