Our Streets

Against my wishes, and against my pride,
my wild amber eyes still insist on searching the streets
that used to be ours, but why?

I don’t want to see you.

My God, I do not want to see you.

But still, every day,
every time I drive by,
I can’t drag my eyes away
from the window of the room that we used to share,
I can’t avert my gaze
from every Vivaro that goes past while I sit and smoke my life away,
I can’t help but peer in
through the pub door to check if you’re at the bar with an overpriced beer.

I can’t.

I don’t want to see you.

And yet every day I look for you.

I saw you yesterday, on our old street.
You looked so old.
So fucking old, and tired, and stressed.
“Weathered.” You looked weathered.
But of course: you’re a daddy now.

.

.

.

The second my eyes left yours the tears came,
but I said, “No. No fucking way. Not today.”
and carried on living my life without you,
knowing that if I ever really wanted to see you
I’d know exactly where to find you.

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