sunday lunch

by Arran James

its inevitable;
the regurgitating horde
telling stories
about the lives they wish
people might lead,
as if the terror of boredom
might smother them
as they walk upstairs
or down the hall
towards a blank class room
or endless supermarket aisles
that taunt them with the produce
that will sit in the fridge
and wither.

“i worry about you”, she says
wanting something to come
from late night laughter
and offers of sharing a bed.
i’m a monster, i should tell her.
i’m using you to let the absence
be erased and not felt quite so keen.

we sit in D’s and eat.
a long languorous day in good company
and spirits. but underneath it
the sense of death perfected
come to life inside me.
i can’t even smoke
because of these fucking renunciations;
another attempt to keep living,
to keep living so as to forget
i have no reason to keep living at all.

and then we ate cake and listened to
our favourite songs, gathered up
our belongings and left while
D went to work on throwing out the
carcass and cleaning things away.

and i love these people so much,
these friends who won’t let me disappear
who keep me tethered to the world
a day at a time.

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