Re-Edit

Re-Edit

On a pitch black drive
I start re-scripting my life,
tightening dialogue, editing stumbles
swapping locations, time zones, weather.
I'm streaming ahead by the time I arrive at you
and linger, stuck in traffic, sweating, swearing.

Despite my shame I could never write you out
the 12 point Courier punched onto me for good:

that first meeting around an indoor picnic table
passing the opening night bottle of champagne;
you taking short hand notes
whilst I laid out my plots, themes
characters, twists.
I couldn't look you in the eye
you bit your lower lip.

You said you were the worst waitress in town
that you'd be a great writer one day
such grand cliche
but by then we were dancing on red carpets
and applauding our own clips.

Come the grubby Autumn
London squatted toad-like on my dreams
6 am routmasters and subway lunches
I hauled bags at a hotel,
the sweat on my furrowed bow like gelatine
lonely as the extra who's line's been cut

the phone calls started slowly at first
but came on nightly
as our scene directions got ever more precise
you were penniless and stranded
I was between agents

I quit my job and spent everything I had
bus/plane/bus/boat/bus on the worst come down of my life
further North than ever before
my stomach like chewing gum
on my knees dry-wretching at Inverness station
such a long way for you
The relief of the first kiss
the understudy come good.

All of this sounds too obvious, too neat
to be just a contingency plan
but I was still seeing other people
the fat producer chewing on his cigar
at the low-rent strip joint

Then my first choice became available again
running from a bad b-movie
and she became the star
got all your scenes, all your magazine covers
as you faded like celluloid

It's complicated, isn't it?
Morally not easy on it's audience
you can see how a focus group would dismiss it.
easier to write you out altogether

I think I did love you
but not enough ...

It was the day before you were to leave for London
I knew you'd visit and then eventually stay
this was it
I left the bar I was in with my new love
and called you from the corner of Old Street.

You thought I was joking and I couldn't bear it
so I made myself feel nothing,
I came back inside and finished my tapas
like those pyschopaths
who chop up their neighbours
then push a trolley round Tescos,
pick their kids up from football.

What happened next is well documented:
the drinking, crying, slapping, laddered tights, dogged denials, embarrassed friends
pretending to myself that narrative is subjective
even when it's co-authored.

I am so fucking sorry
though as an ending that's weak
but please know that I can never edit out your scenes, our scenes
A tricky sub-plot to spoil my Oscar chances
no matter how often the male lead fools.