New Poem For Old Plasters

"We don't talk about love,
we only want to get drunk."-- msp

so the Manics song—the one that could have been our story
if our story had been much longer—came on and I sat on my

underused balcony where you smoked in the rain and watched
Swansea’s skyline for the length of a song, long enough for a lump

to travel from my throat to my stomach and watched the august
mist-- it was November then-- and shook my head. it’s a shame, really.

that no one comes up here. It’s a good view but I need company to
enjoy it. so I've never quite done the deep-breath-in-and calm down

that a good view is supposed to give.

that’s what the cigarettes were supposed to do?
calm you down, right?
you went through so many packs in your yellow room with it’s

candles and liters of Strongbow I was happy to help you with but
ultimately the fags were on a long list of things that were going to

hurt you. I hesitate to put myself on that list; I wrote you a good
poem-- not this one-- and bought you breakfast and tried not to

ever let you see how scared I was, especially that night
when it was too late for nothing to happen and

we polished off two more cans and
you told me about the razors.

you were right about the end; I don't think it's gonna rain

this afternoon I set out to write a brief, pithy comment on the sort of posters one finds at a college poster sale. it turned into a multi-tiered epic sprawling all accross the front of my myspace.

which tells me I need to write blogs sometimes; I need an outlet. As I suspected when I got it, this blogspot may end up being just that. because while I've got other outlets for sure, the number of people who read them that I actually want to know about my life any more is disproportionate to the amount of people I'd like to keep in touch with.
* * * * * *

speaking of people I'd like to keep in touch with, Anna Weeks' last night in town tonight. She decided Uni's not for her and she's heading back to Bournemouth (about four hours awayish, south england). While prior to her decision she was already my closest friend here, in the last two weeks we got involved. Obviously, knowing something's gonna end gives it it's own sort of safety (let's talk about safety and graham some other time) but also made the entire thing feel like a weeklong goodbye. It feels like I'm starting over (again) tommorrow.
She said it herself: "It does sort of get a bit 'we'll always have Swansea,' dunnit?"

kinda feels like I did six months in a weeks' time and damnitfuckinghell I am tired.