Those times when you’re feeling too much 

and speech gets lost in the folds of fatigue. 

When you’re feeling too much and can’t call a friend, 

or stomp it off, or sit in a park and stare through trees. 

 

When you’d trudge to the corner shop, if you could, 

hoard jam rolls and wine for crying; 

walk for hours outside the neighbourhood,

stand rounds at a pub you never set foot in. 

 

You’d dunk morsels of breaded past in each glass, 

shout ‘keep them coming!’; 

fall asleep in a book you found on a bench, 

still between billowing lines. 

 

First light you’d take a knife to the bedroom wall, 

carve a way to a sun-lit now. 

You'd climb every belfry in town to roar down from, 

and, if all fails, wave a white flag, with her name on.