Let’s Not Sit Here.

He said:

“We should take our drinks, leave here,

Go back there, go to the park.

Link arms, hold hands, and be a box of matches;

United, we can make a spark.

We can sit on our bench, made for two.

Sure, it’s creaking, past worn.

Art is misspelt graffiti, and lover’s initials,

Scrawled all over, and etched upon its frame.

And it’s still there, the crooked carving I did,

My attempt to make immortal, our names.

Winters have cracked the paint work,

Which is also sunburnt and peeling.

Like I believed back then, and more so today;

What lies beneath, is the most revealing.

The swings still swing, the see-saw has gone,

But remains the lopsided slide.

I gift to myself every Sunday afternoon,

To go there, to think, to hide.

You could meet me there this Sunday?

Or you can say au revoir, not mean it;

Lie, with a promise to think.

And make these sweet cups of coffee,

Our last time together,

And the bitterest I’ll have to drink.”