By Natasha Ranawake
Picked up your postcard today,
wrapped in indifference
and awkward wording;
chugged the coffee beforehand,
just in case, you didn’t somehow
stir things up.
You say something about love,
as if you were snipping at the shrub,
and scrunching the years again.
Tame yourself for it.
Tame yourself for his needle’s prick
of words drawing the blood out.
Tame yourself for agreement and you
prescribed that postcard;
patience, do everything and anything
to not let it fall apart.
Marriage before the first meet-up,
that’s your practicality speaking.
To that postcard, I say,
The laugh is coming back now,
I am sure you would’ve heard the headline –
The football belting and the
rollercoaster chokehold,
of letting yourself into love,
and taking a breather
and crashing out.
Running with the fistful.
curled up track list,
80s rock and the lovesick gut punch
of losing touch.
Look, the bangles that cradle my arms,
in rugby and the every day,
that clip me to a soundtrack;
a laced jingle, a sway of a choir
when I throw my palms up,
in the air.
Not a prayer,
I couldn’t, not now.
And the scarf, that you gave me,
it’s blue and ten years just about
and they just wrapped up the
midterm yesterday.
Everyone’s in a coffee cup,
buried into cinnamon and
the hangover or the sore throat;
it’s probably just the pub quiz talking.
Featured Image: Cara Crofts