You don't come to visit me any more. Maybe that's for the best. I don't like to remember you like that. You're not good at hiding your feelings. I remember my birthday, the year after we came back from Spain. You and Dave had organised a surprise party. You must have worked so hard to plan it - you got numbers off my phone when I was in the shower. You got the caterers to call you back at work so I wouldn't answer the phone to them. You even came up with the idea to get Mike to call me out on a job that morning so you'd have time to prepare. But you couldn't hide it in your face. I knew something was up. There was grin dancing in your eyes, even when you were trying your best poker face. I loved you for what you'd done, but I think I loved you more for failing so miserably at pretending to have forgotten. I just smiled and got in the car. You must have known I'd cottoned on. I, of course, played the dutiful dupee. I may have known something was up, but I couldn't have imagined how much work you'd put into it. I hope you know how much I appreciated it. I thanked you at the time but I always find it hard to say as much as I mean.
Where are you now, I'm left to wonder. Are you still here, or have you sought warmer climes. Bright sun suited your complexion. Do you remember the quiet area we found, up the beach? Three palms, a few rocks and the bare sunset. It was like a postcard. I like postcards now - they're a way to look at the world without looking outside. The brief glimpses - the windows and the yard - they're punishing. So much stretches out beyond these walls, the world in here is so small. But postcards, photographs - they're confined, like us in here. There's nothing beyond, their whole world is visible. Would I be happy if you sent me one now, from where you are?
No comments:
Post a Comment