I could hear the sound

of another stilled conversation

beginning despite our closeness

for three quarters

of our lengthy lives;

“You only call me when you are melancholic

these days”, she shuffled the words

off her tongue as if she was slowly

delivering a speech

long prepared, long practised,

yet short of meaning, for I refused

to retort with blind obedience,

“You only call me when you are drunk”.

It was my fault for going sober,

kicking the one thing that brought

our pain together and gave us collateral

damage meaning, the refugee status

in each other’s minds, the wound

being dressed by the semi intoxicated

and the licked wound society;

I pined briefly at the sense of loss

that I always felt when our wires crossed,

or these days hands free at the source,

but I just had to say hello

and let her have her sadness soothed

and my once drunken arse bottled.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016