Rap & Revelrye: “That Sunday Feeling” by Keira O’Flaherty

Apparently, we are not too intelligent for this.

 

We are exactly the right kind of-
Poached? Fried? Scrambled.

 

Our good ‘morning’
Without words.

 

I dreamt of this moment once,
And then again a few times over.
You always looked the same.
And the counter-top behind you too.

 

No plates,
Or cups,
Or little bits of tenderness left stuck to the saucepan.

 

But this practice isn’t like the theory, is it?
 

Because this is chaos.
You’re standing right in front of the rotting flowers that I meant to put in the bin.
And I left my tobacco right by the window,
Where I had one more than I promised myself I would.

 

And those eggshells haven’t moved an inch.

 

In this space,
In this space,
There’s too few
Grown-ups.

 

But I’m trying-
To temper the tantrums,
Secure the insecurities,
Make my meals from scratch,
And throw the leftover compliments with a pinch-too-much-of-affection-in-the-inflection
In the rubbish bin.
And I make sure to start slicing the onions at the exact time I know you’re about to say:
‘I just want to be friends.’

 

We’ll never need to buy salt with you around.

 

But, all is fair in love and war, isn’t it?
Except the war about the love, in which few things were fair,
No promises were kept,
And it’s now too complicated to bother fixing.

 

And the pride, don’t forget the pride.
It’s in the cupboard, on the left, behind the jar of every single unsaid thing.

 

I just
Expected so much.
And got so little.
And realised it was my own fault.
Again.
Always.
And never remembered my lesson from all of the previous disappointments and crushed up pieces of heart that maybe, I should be distant.
Aloof.
And elusive.
A little bit like you?

 

Or him.

 

Or her.
 

Or all of the people in which, I’ve seen some promise.

 

Everyone is a little bit beautiful, aren’t they?

 

It was only amidst the headaches,
The schedules of this infant-playing-adult,
The unoccupied time that is occupied by frivolity,
Being in the middle of everything that has nothing to do with you-

 

-It just seemed to come with a start.

 

The out-of-the-blue realisation that confirmed all of the doubts that had been chopping and slicing and dicing my heart:

 

‘I could have been anyone to you.’

 

And,
Oh.

 

All this (wasted?)
Time.
The dip beneath my ribs felt, and will feel the same, as the dip beneath another’s.
And I shouldn’t ask the difference,
But Christ I am human, and greedy and a masochist.

 

Please tell me that I am better than the last,
And the lie can stay pearly white until I give you your sweater back.

 

Here, in the way that your fingers meander down my spine,
Or in how you take the kettle from me,
Or in how I can feel your eyes on me when I look away,
Is where I look for the reasons to stay a little longer.

 

But mostly,
I wonder if I blur and blend and smudge into the pattern of what came before me.

 

Of what will come after.

 

If my frame resembles a King,
A Queen,
A Knight or Pawn,
To be moved across this chessboard.

 

And if your name
Tastes the same
As every other lover’s title that has ever crossed my lips.

 

My hair is going to get longer and longer,
And be cut,
And get longer.
That little pocket of skin beneath my eyes will crease.
And computers will get smaller and smaller.

 

And you,
Or you,
Or you,
Or you,
Will be any other stranger I ask for directions.

 

Only I will have kissed behind your ear.
On a darkened street,
In a darkened room,
On a lit stage.
In this kitchen.

 

Until the kisses shrink,
And the touches lose frequency.

 

Until I’ve beguiled you to a point,
Bewitched you to a peak,
And brought you to the precipice that I,
In fact,
End up falling over.

 

I promise you,
I will leave you first.

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