Bring me a mile

in an empty pocket.

A train ticket

pinned to my wall

to say ‘I was here.

You did not dream me up.’

When it’s cold, I crave

the scent of your neck,

and for you to brush my hair

as sleep climbs my legs.

If you were next to me

I would not need

to look, or touch.

I could sit in silence just to

feel the hairs on your arm

rise against mine like the

fingers of old, blind lovers

intertwining in the dark.


Bethan Ford-Williams