It’s high time for a change,
you owe it to yourself
to travel for miles on clean stretches of road
and boast of progress.
Cling onto the minutes, every good second
that makes you feel alive.
The map that guides you
may not be mine too,
but we can stop here at this pub for a drink or two,
the shot we have to spill our souls
and I’ll take it like we only have today.
It’s December 2016, and we pack these winter blossoms
into bento boxes, whispers of potential
to warm these bones, worn as a wish
but later wrapped as a promise.
You profess you cannot understand poetry
so brave the words in plain sight, born of longing
for a lighter spring, a bold leap towards belonging
to the flow of the seasons and folded limbs.
‘More fun’, you said, ‘more time’, list reasons to celebrate
our intertwining lives and smile at the story so far.
The story; so far.