He’s coming to London, he says,
my mind goes wild with reasons he could be travelling to my city as I wait for his reply,
he’ll sweep back in and tell me it was all some kind of mistake, a mix up of the neurons in his brain, some big misunderstanding,
that it was something else that he meant to finish, a pasta salad, a book, an essay- not us.
He wouldn’t reply, would barely even read my message as he meticulously rehearsed the words he’d say on my doorstep, flowers in hand- no that’s asking too much-
i’d appear in pyjamas at the door and this would add to the spontaneity of the situation,
we’d laugh in the face of the woes we briefly tasted, and then sink into each others arms like we’d do every time the distance interrupted us,
and our imperfect peace would be restored, we’d limp on in the difficulties we refused surrender, and hobble to the grave in the cowardice of being without each other