Eleven Hours

Three thousand nine hundred and fifty two miles
Approximately eleven hours in flight
Crying baby cries for only one of those hours in total
(And I bet it will still be the most substantial thing that happens up here that’s how bored I am)
But it doesn’t bug me

There is nothing to be sad about today
I am heading to the right side of the earth
Where there is no seven-hour time difference,
No three am wake up call or loneliness
that hits at the side of my chest and soles of my feet
begging me to run across this damn ocean,
Today I am ok

I remind myself that I shouldn’t be afraid to touch him like I was the first time
That he will not break and I am not a burden
and bloody hell Hibaq, don’t make things awkward
You’re good at that

Patrick Watson asks me to pick my poisons right
through in-ear headphones
and I begin to wonder what a poison means
‘Cause if he’s a poison then his clothes
are the only things that keep me from death itself
And if that’s how my story ends
I’d happily lay down my pen
Write on his skin with my nails
You see you just can’t push the poet out of me
Not after meeting the closest living thing to poetry

So when I planned this trip
I wasn’t thinking of Venice Beach or Yosemite National Park
But breakfast in late afternoon
And our conversations after dark
Of mimicking accents and wearing old t-shirts,
Not having to repeat myself because of a bad connection
And all the ways I’ll sink into his skin

I thought of how he made the same flight
Told me three thousand nine hundred and fifty two miles was worth it
I believed him and this time I didn’t second-guess myself
I’m starting to get good at that

What They Are

He is careful with his movements
Calculated, even
Legs too long to control whole-heartedly
and made too many jokes that night
These days he’s an Actor
Mentor
Man with A Vision
6 ft. and some extra
Apparently loaded with relationship wisdom
“No more time for poems about heartbreak, I’m happy now.
I’m moving on to the serious stage”
Those are the kind of things he says
you know the type

She’s bored already
has a restless leg and tries to bend her body to the left
Next person on stage, her cue to rearrange
These days she’s a Poet
Student
Girl with too many books to read
just over 5 ft. on good days
who wonders things like “will eBay let me sell my social anxiety?”
And if the seat he’s saving is for his new girlfriend
The One They Don’t Talk About
“The Actress”
She shouldn’t have come tonight

Mutual friends feel the tension from three seats down
He’s making too many jokes
She’s not laughing enough
No-one is sitting in that spare seat

They used to be a right pair
Voices would tangle in the corners of tube carriages.
They’d order tea in that kooky bar in Shoreditch
where everybody is so afraid of being cliché
they only serve stiff drinks with simple names.
There were times when they picked things up for each other
and would sew their names into their chests
just to prove the pain is nothing compared to being alone

And this is what they are now
Too many jokes and not enough tea
A fake happy
A genuine misery

This is what they are now
Too many nerves not enough bones
Misplaced matter
and flesh waiting to come home

He is careful with his movements
She has a restless leg
He speaks more than he laughs
She drinks too much

This is what they are now

The Things I Would Tell You

If you squint hard enough at our building it starts to sink into the backdrop of Green Dragon estate, Brentford, Hounslow, West London
I’ve spent a lot of time sitting here squinting.
Turning pebbles into rhinestones,
the closest I will come

Here
Clovers bet on each other
Who will be the first to lose it’s lucky?
Like young boys bruise each other with kisses
they say “this is how it’ll feel when the world loves you”
seems you lost yours long before I knew what loss was
and between this place and all the schools we shared
I find parts of you, scattered.

I would tell you
Sam’s 2 for 2 ain’t two quid anymore
not that it matters, ‘cause I don’t eat meat these days
it’s kinda funny how it was only after your death
I found out how many innocent creatures bleed

I would tell you
I thought you were at The Pit
Lashes deep in the soles of every dream kicked into free goals
every alleged mugging that went down
and weed pushed by policemen into the pockets
of men too young to inhale anything but the pollution
they were born into

I’d spray paint your manifesto in a language only broken souls can read
Same one you were fluent in
When you give away one tongue and picked up another
voice box tube tied, recognised your lungs
in pages of Arabic script

When your name is Amin
it’s no wonder you found yourself
At the end of our prayers

I would tell you
Mum has nightmares still
A fresh scar torn every day while I slowly forget your face
Would tell you it isn’t easy
loving Hip-Hop without picturing you in a Wu-Tang cap
and if this world is a stage then brother I am nervous
shaking, pushing words out too fast
trying to catch my breath
and tr-tri-tripping over things I haven’t even said yet

I would tell you I am lonely
the kind of lonely only ghosts of family members can fix
the kind of lonely that just sits

They tell me I am a woman now
but if this is womanhood, they can take it all from me
there aren’t enough fucking clovers in the world
and I’m 27 grand down in the luck department

I would tell you I am tired
of not being loud enough, or strong enough
That I don’t sleep these days
and take pills just to face the rain
I’ve calculated it would take ten thousand four hundred bruises
to bring you back to life
and I swear I get close, before I lose count
because you were always better with numbers

So I decided to stick to only counting your birthdays
it’s one of the few things that keeps me from putting an end to my own
And now I’m here, squinting at a building I don’t live in anymore

Writing this for you

Hoping it will be enough.