i’d found stone rock bench platform plateaus
where you used to drink your coffee    cigarettes
and laugh at passers-by, sitting on yourself
occasionally eyeing an old-styled frieze
of judgemental swords and curling lips,
half-wondering what shiny sparking floors
hid inside grey white smog smoked walls.

you’d complain about the square
forever being full of something,
usually people, sometimes markets
utterly refusing to let the space be
and your smoking spot’d be stolen
by wooden huts hawking mushy peas
or mulled cider or chocolate tools

she’d sipped at broken wine,
minding her skin on the glass,
she’d told me it made more sense
when you were bruised, when
beautiful tiredness burst
behind your eyelids and cracked
your wrists with all the fury
of what you’d wished you could say.

on days like those we could lie
about the beauty in everything,
but now we can only tell the truth.

“It Was”

It was streetcorners and Godspeed You! Black Emperor and the way the lamps looked in the rain,
It was parking lot attendants warning us that they were busy and that we would have to come back later,
It was misplacing the ashtray and having to smoke outside instead,
It was laying on a bed covered in notebooks forcing yourself to start again, again,
It was learning how much time an Earl Grey would buy you in the average tearoom,
It was coat pockets full of receipts for things you couldn’t remember buying,
It was counting your fingers to try and forget why they were shaking,
It was forgetting to dose for a few days and remembering on the way to a gig, and spending the whole evening zoomed in,
It was writing every day just before midnight because to do otherwise was to fail,
It was