Here we are again in the West

With its quiet mornings, hushed tones

Orderly civility

This time you

Alpine-like.

The consonants on the door’s row of buzzers don’t match yours

Sounds that stumble

Demanding authority of place

Yours: soft.

We meet again in the West

The North

Eight years after that dinner I don’t remember

Just after that era when you couldn’t reach me

When I was lost to you

Before I started seeing someone about the brick on my chest

When it was still dark but exciting

Working my way through them

On a hamster wheel too small to run on.

It is now twelve years since our encounter

When I was mad

You remember it fondly, I don’t remember.

Just splinters, fragments of a night and a morning

A mission, a project, filling a hole

I’m still sorry.

It’s now twenty-three years since we met

In the dust

Stray cats, bamboo tables, Chipsy packets, backstage, open air, easy laughter

You at the start, worlds exploding

Me at the end, thinking of leaving

Coming into my

Season of Migration to the West.

First performed as one of six pieces at Inquilab – University of the Arts’ radical reading group – on 27 November 2024