A year on

This time last year, in the only week of summer, the heat turned the recent rains into a humidity that shocked me.

You placed the necklace round my neck but careful to ask permission first that you could even give me a gift. And I thought you were going to ask something so bad of me, my hand shot to my mouth, my eyes watered. Jewellery to adorn me, to compensate that it would not be you as my decoration.

I had flown direct from Italy. Already we had lost days, a night. I cursed how time could be taken from us. We had so little. If only I knew how little we would really have.

We kissed on a pier, our trademark. An edge fell under our weight and lake water washed our feet. "Each pier gets less stable" you joked. If only we knew that in the future they would snap from the weight of both of us, force us to stand at the water's edge alone or risk sinking.

I turned my head at every green van and last year it was always yours. Now, I still turn, did again today so sharply and then fell because I didn't get to see the registration number.

Last year you were faced with the choice: to let go or stop. And I sat fidgetting on the edge of the bed waiting as you stumbled to find words, my stomach flip flopped in anticipation of the outcome and alcohol that accompanies bad news.

Instead, you said "I love you" and the surprise sent me in a happy arc.

This year I hope only to see you across, away, a long depth of field, a wide shot.

This year I hope to sneak a smile meant for someone else and take it as my own as a final souvenir.

I conjure, feel, know, the bluest of eyes, messy hair, too busy-stubble, sun touched forearms, the fades in your tshirt, the details of dimples, the inflects in your voice. I am your seventh sense.

I wear the necklace. You know the message I send you.