September

September was still warm: not as hot as the breath in my ear whispering your name. I looked around. For you, for whoever. Only there when I wasn't looking. Nothing to see: just coke cans crushing and cracking brittle leaves as the wind skimmed both across the pavement. Still, for the past week I had been turning to look for you, although I knew you wouldn't be there.

We should have had a year. One of Frank's very good ones: for drinking the wine: to the dregs. We laughed 'til we cried, ejected from the DLR for dancing to cheesy music from your Ipod. A poem, a kiss, a night and then over. Without starting. It seemed I was hurting you without quite knowing how. The months went by I didn't phone you, you didn't e-mail me.

The sun went out when you went in search of it in April. A fortnight's eclipse in my skyline.
I had pictures. Not the same; not even hundreds on my wall. I took one a day from May through June; you didn't know. I didn't care. July; warm and sultry July: Julie's month – and mine. We were close again at last. My kisses didn't tell you that I loved you. And you couldn't return them. It wasn't to be. It wasn't to be me.

It wouldn't be anyone then.

August was cool for you. I kept you fresh – on ice.

But in September the whispering started, and I had to look over my shoulder.