When I arrived at Exeter Road
When I arrived at Exeter Road, on a chilly, Brummie Sunday, meeting you after much worry and delay, you didn’t appear as you seemed: startled as to how much Instagram owed to your beauty. But this was redeemed by the cosy time we spent, guarded by joy and harmony in your cramped room where hours are set free. Never experienced such closeness, and I left feeling more than content, thinking I got a taste of love’s loveliness. But soon the Christmas holiday break left the pair of us strained. My home was collapsing, and work drained our reserves for fondness. My ignorance to relationships was causing headaches, strangling our messages to indifference. Now it’s clear that when term began your heart was on its way. There was nothing I could do or say to prevent the crash, or rescue the interest and warmth that ran when we proved to be heavily bruised. How you tried to phase me out hurt. Cutting me loose with no words spoken. Flickers of rage roamed undeterred within my heart, I wished to blot your mark on my life beyond any doubt, so I could attain love that pain forgot. Yet here I am, still processing my fleeting dance with modern romance. My grief has now advanced to sombre thanks, as it was clear I was unfit. Though failure’s distressing, I’ve learnt to hold myself dear.