Jack, I want you to own every part of yourself:
black hair, new glasses, Bromley postcode.
I want you to go to sleep at night and say you made the day bend to the shape of your tongue.
You are like the piri-piri sauce on Nandos chicken,
a Coal burger too full to fit in your mouth,
Bill’s skinned chips.
(I don’t know why all my similes for you are food related;
maybe we should reassess our biscuit fuelled diet.)
You’re like tea on Saturday mornings,
leftover Dominos on a Sunday, nursing a Lemmy hangover
with cold dough balls.
You are like deadline dissertation day,
handing it in, all threaded,
before going to the Impy to start celebrations.
Sometimes I find a quote which I want to shout at you through the walls.
Think of life as a Moleskin notebook,
there are so many pages yet to fill
how can you be unsatisfied with it when you don’t know what’s to come?
Budapest should still be throbbing in your throat,
the city’s architecture a polaroid against your closed eyes.
You will visit so many more cities.
In one of them,
there is a person who will tie themselves to your life and refuse to ever leave.
So get your bucket list,
add on the one thing you’ve always been scared to dream of doing,
tell me when it’s done.