Words of Little Consequence

You were not invited, but I let the thought of you in anyway, fearing the seaweed breeze would wash away the tacky souvenir I bought myself for 50p at the car-boot sale just because it reminded me of when we went to Brighton, when we were sixteen, on a Sunday, and kissed each other on the shiny pebbles till your un-grown facial hair made my cheeks sting,
and I sat with my arm around your chilly neck wondering whether we would ever feel ancient and crooked. Or whether we would Live Forever like Oasis promised, or whether the flavour of incense would ever leave your clothes, or whether I’d one day feel heartbreak like James Blunt did, to write all those songs that moved so many people to tears even if they don’t admit it, and knowing that if you were still here today you’d have a thing or two to say about Mr Trump and his terrifying tower, and melancholy hits me like an exhausted bulldozer because I know you don’t need your shoes anymore. 

And you loved your shoes.

Even if a pair of Vans only lasted you a week because your skateboard tore them to shreds, and I think of where your shoes are now with muted anxiety because I know you’d have wanted them to be given away to a good home, but I don’t know where they are, and I don’t want to ask your mum either because it would be too excruciatingly out of the blue, so I just sit tight, souvenir in hand, waiting for you to call again.