I always thought we’d find our way back together, somehow, sometime, someplace. And we did. But we were older and we had changed.
You had made me cold.
You left. You were always good at walking away.
You did not look back this time.
You should have told me that you wanted to fight.
I didn’t consider myself a writer until I met you.
You were all scruffy hair and spectacles
at the end of your nose,
all classic novels
and 20 cups of tea
to keep you going
your tap, tap, tap on your writing desk
with your ink-stained finger tips.
I inspired you, you had said
and I clung to this long after you had forgotten,
Your gentle smile and freckles and your one armed hugs
wrapped myself in your wool jumper that winter
jotting down pencil words in messy notebooks,
with sore fingertips on typewriter keys,
I am certain,
I wasn’t a writer,
Until you inspired me.