To my friends,
Pockets of life zinging between denim washed eras,
How I wish we could be nearer -
I think about the fabric that holds me,
That which has been worn
I wonder if those that have faded
See me, as I walk around in a fashion pre-loved and maybe torn.
I often find myself filtering,
through times past and landing in a home,
wiltshire- berkshire border,
amongst the bare minimum scaffolding of a party
and drunken teenage disorder.
Its pillars being no more than a JBL speaker, peach schnapps and a game that made no sense
Completely bewitched by nothing of real significance
then, only now beaming - its simplicity, its fiercely vital totality.
Once wound so tight together, quietly I notice fraying
stringy bits of loose cotton on my jeans, the thread unravelling from the seam.
The I that splits
and belongs to them
I look for,
I wonder into the same rooms forgetting why
I am here but staying there,
Only the company of grasping and gripping
Remembering, hanging
in the air.
I do not believe in its absence
Stumbling anti-newness
As I wrap the stringy pieces of cotton around my finger
and ponder in the heat,
its burning belonging to before -
I sit with it often
And miss it even more.