Joy - a poem
I sat on the IKEA couch and sobbed. £50 an hour to talk about you. A waste. A shame. The perfect way to ruin my day, to let myself become absorbed in the pain you gave me when you left. Now I’ve got a hole in my heart and in my wallet and you get to go on with your life like nothings changed. But the hole you left gave me space to fill and it’s been 18 months and my door is wide open. Inviting in poetry and sunlight and friends whose laughter sounds like spring. Friends with highlighter hair and mismatched socks and who buy me stickers on a Monday just because. Friends who check every can of Diet Coke to make sure it’s the coldest so that it hits the hardest when it’s cracked open, ready for that first sip to transport us to life’s smoking area, all compliments and confidence. Confident enough to chase the children from the park and declare ourselves kings. Pushing each other on the swings and screaming higher, higher, until our sides rip at the seams and we collapse, hand in hand, otters drifting on a sea of woodchip and foam.
