I have a draft folder full of messages I very nearly sent;

You have an inbox full of ones I very nearly did not and true,

I wish a number of those were still an untyped firefly in my heart yet to vent,

Like the one wherein I confess to loving you.

Could we go back to dancing in a kitchen that doesn’t belong to us?

Forget we ever fell further than the chair?

Let’s go there, never leave, because Christ I miss you now, believe

Me, I could do it because I care.

Things get too real, so we feel there’s no other way,

But it all happened so fast- it could never start let alone last eh mate?

Yet I wish it were possible to side-step what we said yesterday

And return to under-milked Milanos, talks of Paris and running into lifts too late.

Yet I doubt it is, so I shall go away and make lemonade as you always told me to.

And as I do, I’ll raise a glass or two to my February Belle,

Who plucked me from the depths and dried me, never tried me and ended up climbing inside me through

The crack in my heart, which she patched up from the inside so no one could tell.

Thank you, you mended me well.