I let my mind dwell on it for a while - nigh on three weeks to be exact - to see if it came up with anything, which it didn't - or at least not poem wise, anyway - and then I set myself a subject, and then another, to see if that would help. It did, a little, but not nearly as much as I'd hoped. I ended up with a few half-baked lines here and there, but nothing I was really happy with or had the heart to carry on with.
Until yesterday, that was, when two ideas I'd pondered over in the past and then dismissed came up to me all of a sudden and slapped me in the face to get my attention.
So, today once I'd dealt with various little I've-not-had-time-to-do-this-until-now tasks, I settled down to try and come to grips with them.
The first one was still not fully formed, so I left that be again for now - after jotting down the jumble that was in there already - but the second, once I started writing, came all pouring out at once, one line after the other. I haven't tried to format it yet. Or even read it out loud to see if it works as a poem - or even prose - but just as with the other things I'd written, it felt jolly good - emotion wise - as I pounded it out, and that's all that really matters to me. So, unformatted, unthought about and possibly very terribly un-good, for better or worse, here it is:
*****
THAT TIME THAT YOU
KISSED ME.
The date went well.
It’s not you, it’s me.
Or the other way around...? There just wasn’t a future.
Or at least, not as you wanted.
Even though that time that you kissed me, it all made sense.
We ate at a café. Shared a pizza.
When you came back from the counter I was writing.
You joked about my taking notes, and I laughed.
But at the same time I was embarrassed, because actually I
was.
We talked and laughed. Laughed and talked.
I can’t even remember now what we talked about, or what your
laugh sounded like.
Just that when you smiled: I smiled back and felt right.
We visited a gallery. Not a great one; most of it was
closed.
But it was there that you pulled me into the ladies room and
kissed me
And it felt righter than your smile, righter than your
laugh; righter than anything.
Locked together your body felt soft and your lips smelled of
raspberry.
I had a brief worry about being a slut to kiss on the first
date then dismissed it.
I didn’t care.
All I knew was that your skin was smooth and your breath was
warm.
That you were kissing me, and it all made sense.
We walked some more. Talked some more.
Your mind was what my Grandmother would call ‘filthy’;
You saw double entendres, found sexual innuendos in practically
everything.
But even though I’ve been called a prude before I didn’t
care.
In fact, I found it refreshing. Even fun.
At least at first.
Because I was here and on a date and I was feeling just
fine.
We kissed again in a closed shop doorway.
You held my hand, copped feels of my behind, and I did the
same to you.
Your arse was the only part of you that was bigger than
mine.
The rest of you was smaller.
Round though, and soft. Nice.
And you thought I was nice too.
Which was even nicer.
Because we were walking and you were holding my hand, out in
public.
Your fingers entwined with mine: that was nicest of all.
The date only lasted a few hours.
In the finish, we were in your car, ready to drive me back
to the station.
We talked some more. You told me about other girls: girls
who only wanted one thing.
Though that thing was pretty brilliant, you assured me; don’t
get you wrong.
And I believed you.
Because thinking of the two of us lying together made my
cheeks flush hot and my breath come faster and my stomach twist up inside.
But it was in a good way: it felt right. Everything felt
right.
Seeing the curve of your breasts under your shirt,
impulsively I pressed my hand to them.
They felt just as I thought they would: perfect.
If we’d been in a movie you’d have slapped me. Or we’d have
had sex right there.
But it wasn’t and you did neither.
Instead you laughed again, and put your hand to mine.
When we were sure no-one was watching, we took a sneak peek.
And pronounced ourselves both satisfied.
Yes, we both agreed: they both looked as good as they felt.
As I got out of the car you took my hand in yours.
You told me that you were glad we’d met: that it felt right
for you too.
You wanted me to go back to your flat, and I knew what for,
but I balked.
Not yet. Not now. “Not on a first date”.
And you laughed; shook your head, and backed down.
Okay. Next time. Next time we would.
My heart sped up as I said ‘yes’.
On the train home I felt a mix of things.
I was jubilant that after nearly ten years I had done it:
gone on a date.
And annoyed with myself that it had taken me so long to get
around to trying.
I was happy that it had gone well, and that another was
planned.
But at the same time troubled by the idea of giving myself
so soon, even though I knew I wanted it.
I was relieved by the utter certainty, banishing the
lingering doubts.
And a little sad for my mother, who I knew had deep down
been hoping I was wrong and not gay after all.
But most of all, I was remembering how you kissed me: and it
all made sense.
Such a lovely day. How soon it went wrong.
I realised very quickly that I was out of my depth, and so
were you.
When your messages and calls came through thick and fast,
one after the other; each one more telling than the last.
But I tried not to see it that night.
Instead, I lay in my bed and imagined you there beside me.
And my breath came quicker and I grew hot again at the
thought of it.
The next day though, I had to admit the problem, both to
myself and to you.
Because you were now talking marriage and unbreakable fates
entwined on the strength of one afternoon.
A nice afternoon, but still, one afternoon.
And I realised that it no longer felt right: that you weren’t
right.
You didn’t take it well, and I didn’t expect you to.
You begged me to reconsider, and I begged you to do the
same.
To take a few steps back, to take one day at a time.
To just wait and see, rather than mapping out a vision of a future
I didn’t know if I shared yet.
But you wouldn’t, couldn’t; didn’t. You wanted all of it,
all of me, all at once.
Now. Right now.
And I wouldn’t, couldn’t; didn’t.
So left with no choice I did the opposite instead and pushed
you away.
Gently at first. Then when forced to, hard.
Twenty four hours. I couldn’t believe how quickly you came
and went.
How quickly you had to go, because I had to make you.
And I’m sorry: I really am.
Because I did consider it. I did think of it.
I did make myself try and see it the way you did on my
behalf.
Because I could tell that was what you wanted.
But you wanted it in the wrong way. Wrong for me.
I couldn’t do it just to make you happy.
Just to be nice.
Even though you were nice.
Not nice enough.
Not for that.
So I’m sorry.
And at the same time I’m grateful.
Because although it ended badly, it had proved that I could.
If I wanted, when I wanted. To make me happy, no-one else.
Because it had reassured me of what I wanted, when I wanted;
that I wasn’t wrong. That the realisation which had come so late yet left me so
relieved and at peace was as real as I was, and no less.
That I was no less.
So sorry, to you, from me, and thank you.
For that time that you kissed me, and it all made sense.
Written by Alice Collison. 24/11/2107.
*****
B.C.B.F.L.B x
