coconut and custard milk tea,
a drink that i never ordered
but i got anyways;
a little slip of the tongue on our first date –
i had wanted chocolate.
i didn’t kiss you until over a week after,
the two of us leant against a wall
after i had chased after a cat,
distracted from buying a milkshake –
kissing you was far better.
i shared a lot of things with you,
my past, my dreams,
food, bickering over the bill,
cookies i had made for you
packed carefully into clear takeaway boxes.
now you’re gone,
i have nothing left to give,
because when i shared these things with you,
you took it all,
and never gave it back.
after you left,
i didn’t want to eat
everything that met my lips
of what would never touch them again.
i have no appetite
because everything i liked
hope it’ll give me enough strength
to live for someone who cares.
right now i’m eating
coconut and chocolate icecream,
cold on my tongue,
it reminds me
of my drink on our first date.
it tastes nothing like the the apple sorbet
we shared together
that beautiful, beautiful day,
we walked around the suburb
amidst crowds of people
you held my hand
bought you a stuffed rabbit.
i gave it to you,
wrapped in your hoodie
the everlast one,
that still smelt of you
after a week in the bushland.
i gave you the stuffed rabbit (i don’t regret it),
twenty dollars out of my purse (i lied to you about the price at first)
wrapped in the hoodie you lent me (on request)
when i spent the holiday at that army camp (it changed me, it changed you),
alone, without you (the two were synonymous)
i remember the way your eyes lit up,
i remember the way you brought it close to your chest,
i remember the crinkle of your eyes,
i remember you thanked me,
i remember you kissed me.
it was on that day,
we sat at those silver picnic benches.
you’d spilled some of your taiwanese dessert on your white shorts,
and the two of us
i was wearing a white dress.
you said that
when i wore it,
i looked like an angel.