This is a poem by our very own Bel that I read in her weekend newsy ‘The Word Resort’ and just ADORED so I’m sharing it with you. PS you can all subscribe to The Word Resort for more Bel here, and you should!!
You in my car. Your hand on my leg. Turning the corner. Going back down again. Sunday afternoon. The rugby final. BB cream and cheap eyeliner. Everything we wanted and all that other dreaming too difficult to ask about.
Cheap birthdays. Hot nights. Splitting the bill. Losing my mind. Talking to you from Florence that night. Flatmates. Big mistakes. Missing the connection. Chasing the flight. Someone always leaving, someone always left behind.
The washing, drying. The calls we never made. Your friend’s band on at 11:45. Blue Powerade. Gum rubs in back corner pubs. Footy on TV. Some guy in bracelets. African disco music. Polyester blazers on the coat hook. Block heels. Shin splints. Drunk on a Tuesday. Everyone getting over it.
Moving on. Moving up. Sheryl Sandberg. Snapchat. Why hasn’t he text back yet. Bedroom floors. Marks on the wall. Friends like bones. Apricot brandy. Wet tents. Long weekends. No reception.
Not hearing from you. Meeting strangers and mistaking it for fate. Trying to keep up. Losing it behind. Taking too fast. Getting good. Being bad. Bridesmaiding in the regions. Wondering where you are. Sundays that’d go on forever if they could.
You, turning to me at the end of it all on the footpath saying, I don’t want to stop — I’m afraid if I do, I’ll miss all my chances.