Instead of
growing apart, why don’t we go
and see that film,
the one that’s been delayed,
in the cinema that’s closed. We’ll sit
on the grubby seats
that are always sticky
and never recline,
and I’ll say It’s been a while,
and we’ll laugh about how bad we are at keeping in touch.
When something shocking happens, I’ll lean over and
whisper about how I saw it coming
and my arm will brush yours.
On the way out,
you’ll say It wasn’t the best
and I’ll agree. Perhaps you’ll skip
the last step as we’re leaving,
turn and look at me like you’re
Tom Cruise doing a stunt in Mission Impossible.
We’ll walk home
and the sun probably won’t be out
and it will be cold
and we’ll complain.
When we get to yours
we’ll hug and wave goodbye.
I won’t have to close my eyes to remember your smile.
When I get to the end of your road,
I’ll turn.
I’ll see you lift your hand and wave again –
but I won’t give it a second thought
because I’ll see you again tomorrow.
