‘Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.’ Rumi
Where are you hiding, my love?
I know you’re in here somewhere.
Somewhere inside, a long time ago, I made space
and now I just need to retrace
my steps to the place
where I first made that sweet soft bed
of moss, autumn leaves and longings –
the place I’ve been keeping you safe
until I’m ready,
ready to see your face.
Oh, who am I kidding?
I’m full of shit sometimes.
Truth is, I’ve been busy –
doing my own thing.
Okay, if I’m going to be honest –
now this is quite hard to say:
I buried you in one of those drawers of my heart
where I keep all the things I don’t think about,
but can’t be arsed to throw away
because I think I might need them one day.
Like old batteries and foreign currency and dirty old garden string.
I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on. You know?
And I’m scared because I had a rummage the last time I got lonely,
but couldn’t find you amongst any of those things.
You’re not like that, are you?
You’re lovely: kind from your head to your toes –
I’ve always known –
and all along I know you’ve kept me inside, kept me near,
warm in the palm of your world-weary hand or
deep in the shell of your ear.
I promise I’ll make it up to you.
I’ll know you at once from theveryfirstsecond we meet
and from that day on, you’ll be cherished –
I’ll even wear you, if you like
like this heart –
that I wear
on this sleeve.