I’m not one for holding moments. There’s years
of this life uncredited, unrecorded, left to a memory
that fades on its own terms because I wasn’t much
for journals or photographs. I’ve let chapters fall
to deep voids, episodes swallowed in their entirety,
I’ve freely allowed the lightest breeze to carry chapters
now forever lost, gone, forgotten,

but please, please, I need this one archived,
branded in membrane, remembered as well
as my name. It was last year; our flat was a rash of mould,
the windows were thin, fogged, and the bed springs
ached, and the oven was gassy and dangerously old.

We were dancing to David Bowie, drunk, careless,
savouring the seconds of each other’s company
in our little square of rented space.
The volume was so loud our neighbours stomped
on the ceiling and jiggled the lightbulb to the music.


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