Perhaps if I had chosen differently that Tuesday,
you would have chosen differently that Tuesday.
I keep dreaming about you touching my legs
on the train that night in December.
But I always wake and remember that you sit behind bars.
Now what chance do we stand.
Although I’m sure If I had let myself,
I would have learnt to bend over them backwards to get to you.
It’s my simple thing,
remembering you in days.
The ones you were there, and the ones you were not.
Thursdays you would take off for me
and Fridays, after work
we would find a spot to go swimming at the beach,
drive home after midnight still wet in your car.
So you leaving mid-week, like you did
screwed with me like jet lag.
I wish you had waited until Sunday to get caught.
That’s when I picked up my pen to write.
Not about you at first, to you.
Everyone has a purpose. I felt like mine was to make you feel.
Everything everyone is too scared to.
And so I wrote from the heart.
I was scared too, least of all angry, just sad, because it was to you.
Once I started I couldn’t stop.
I wrote from dark until light.
Stamp stuck and purpose filled. Self expression-ed out.
I felt everything I knew it would make you feel.
Freedom under the moonlight.
I sprinted to catch the 9am post. That letter had run me out.
But I was lighter on my feet, and mind.
Friday changed my life.