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Everything went wrong at the same time. The job and the love and the home. I told my friend and he said: sometimes you have to fall right down to the bottom so that you can push your way back up again. Then he kissed my forehead and told me he would be there. When he left I felt very alone.

I walked home, my head heavy with vodka and all the things I didn’t know how to begin. In my house I paced the rooms and the corridor and the stairs, back and forth, over and over. I looked closely into mirrors and saw lines near my eyes. I boiled water and never made tea. I showered for what seemed like hours.

In the morning my friend called me. How is it feeling today? He asked. Today I’m OK, I said. I’ll come and find you later, he said.

When he found me he dried my new tears and gave me a poem he had written on a cigarette packet. Then he kissed my forehead and told me he would find me again the next day.

We went on like this for some time. Soon we realised I wasn’t crying anymore. He lifted me off my feet, took me dancing. We laughed so hard. I felt like I was in a movie. When he left, he slipped a new poem written on a cigarette packet into my pocket.

I don’t see him so much anymore but I miss him and his sweet kisses.


Written by elikafm

March 9, 2010 at 11:24 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

3 Responses

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  1. Well, that was lovely.
    I do like the idea of fag packet poems – a new literary form only to be undertaken in philanthropic mode, perhaps.
    BTW we’re starting a writing salon here at Partners. First challenge, write a tanka.
    Sounds harder than writing BMW copy.


    March 10, 2010 at 9:30 am

    • As in the Japanese poem form? Wowsers. That’s *really* hard. Can other people join your writing gang? And do you need people who can write more generally?


      March 10, 2010 at 10:15 am

  2. A story that sent shivers down my spine – solemn but at the same time heartening. Love it….

    Marainne S-Waters

    March 10, 2010 at 9:37 am

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