On Leaving

I am not as sentimental as I used to be.
Like waiting for a delayed train,
I teeter on the edge of the week,
wondering if the freight load
of feeling will ever arrive.

My life has once again been stacked
into boxes. I have peeled away
the posters of poetry that doesn’t rhyme,
and postcards of out-of-print book covers.
The notice board, my bedroom's second window
into my world, has been stripped bare -
save for one fig-leaf green,
uncollected prescription
to preserve its dignity.

Now the room has regressed
to a previous summer,
shrugged off my existence
from its walls and wardrobes.
We are both back to square one.

There is just one final ritual to carry out.
I walk along the river to Prebends Bridge,
and in the strange, sweltering heat I'm forced
to take off my jacket. The group
of elderly tourists to my left probably
think I'm about to jump.

I listen to Mumford and Sons,
and take out the necklace;
dangle it from my fingers,
feeling slightly ridiculous.
I am not as sentimental
as I used to be.

A birthday present from Laura
that became the symbol
of something more than her...
A symbol of him instead.
I picture the pendant sparkling
in the sunlight as I arch over him...
He lifted it like a latch so many times
to walk in and out of my life.

I kiss the cool silver, then let it go...
It drops into the Wear
like a coin into a fountain.
I make a wish: that he's
somehow learnt to be happy.

Once the ripples have folded
into themselves I call Laura
for the first time in two months.
Her answer-phone picks up.
"Hey, Laura...
It's Britain's Worst Best Friend.
Nothing important, really.
I just wanted to say
that I really, really miss you..."