Freewrite on the Bakerloo Line from Waterloo
You told me stories about tribes worshipping moons, tides and skinned animals around open fires.
I held you up to the dimly lit light of the bar,
thinking you were a vision of ecstasy too good for me to extract pleasure from.
I learnt not to worship you the day you accidentally swore in front of your five year old niece.
I was no longer constrained by what I could or couldn’t say to make you love me.
You are not a God, you are human, you are flawed.
I loved you more when I could slot our flaws in between each other.
I like it when you’re crumpled up paper, wonky eye liner lines,
keep being less than perfect please,
so you are real, like squashed oranges in lunch boxes.
I will still always hold your name like it is a prayer between lips,
talk to you in the middle of the night when you are not there,
try to forge closeness when we are far apart.
I have faith that you will answer me in time,
step back into view all fire and brimstone, as imperfect as unreflecting mirrors, blunt knives,
promises of lonely people, worshipping moons from flats they do not own.