January 18th

January 18th.

My heart wrote about a winter’s night sky.

One that felt freed and light.

Because I told you how you hurt me.

Seven days after.

I pretended to be tipsy so my words could be raw.

They told the waiters how I hated you

but how I loved you more.

The next day.

I apologised for my inebriated anger.

My retaliation to your lack of care and

reciprocation of that night in November.

November twenty-four.

I had a crush but kept it behind a closed door.

You took my hand and opened it.

Left it open then left.

Nine months.

Two seasons have passed.

And I cannot find the strength

to close our door myself.

To forgive and to forget.

Is there a conversation that must happen

before the 18th passes again?

So many letters have been sent, unopened and unread.

You once told me we could be friends.

Now you look at me like I am dead.

Another party, another dance.

Far more sober than the last.

Maybe a wedding, maybe a baby.

You could fall out of and in love.

I may sit opposite you

as the winter’s sky turns a dark blue.

The light regained in my eyes.

Out door closed tight.

I will not fall.

I will not cry.

January 18th 2025.