Trial Shift

We both hoped I'd get the job

A very busy Friday night,

music loud, guests chattering,

it was your trial shift

and as we crossed paths

between the 20s and the 50s,

a prosecco bottle popped

and fizzed over my organs,

the man on 23 called for me,

but his drink never arrived,

because my ears and my eyes

were only for you.

I hoped you’d get the job.

You did.

One drunken staff party later

as alcohol gave us permission

to unleash our desires upon the other,

we were inextricably entwined.

Your smile stretched like a white sand beach,

I wanted to build a cottage there.

I saw us playing in the shallows as I

took your hand and stared deep into your

colour changing eyes,

discovering our constellations,

charting our course.

I know I wasn’t ready

to meet you.

You were carrying an ocean

and I brought a bucket.

We desperately tried

but the next step was coated in seaweed,

a broken compass took us

round and round, and I think

this was my trial shift,

we both hoped I’d get the job.

But I didn’t.

It was your absence that shipwrecked me.

Now I hear your name on seagull calls,

or on the break of waves, while watching

other couples who still sail

across moonlit water.

Among the shipwreck

I’ll salvage what serves and

burn the rest in a bonfire

where the tide can’t reach.

I’ll always be grateful that we met

between the 20s and 50s.

Though a part of me

might quietly yearn

for our cottage by the sea.