In a crowded Kilburn pub

minutes before the gig,

the ache sneaked in.

 

I’m squirreled into a corner,

nested down, trying to order

scattered thoughts

 

into precise columns.

It isn’t working.

As I sip sparkling water

 

my eye is drawn outside by

a green Ford Focus

crawling across the window.

 

My spirit teleports home;

an instant longing nags to be

swaddled with you on the sofa,

 

the public me

folded away

for quieter times.

 

Words waterfall as

I leaf through pages

trying to get my set

 

to solidify

but this is just idle

displacement.

 

The ache won’t dissipate

until I’m home.

This is our twenty-fourth winter

 

and I can’t help

question if we are 

somewhere south of normal,

 

still fresh as meltwater

while others turn

brackish or stagnant.

 

For now, I gather;

prepare to deliver

an edited facsimile of a man

 

to these strangers.

I have to, for I am not mine to give.

I am bought with eternal currency:

 

the intimacy of knowing;

the tenderness of surrender;

the rebirth of a single shared breath.