It is a cruelty to know
if you came back now. If you knocked
if you came bearing fruits
and castle bricks, and tickets to New Orleans,
and a mouthful of our history
dripping like honey. If you told me
‘I still have the last bedsheet you bought.’
If you gave me an oyster card with a year of travels on it.
I’d let you in, for tea, and I wouldn't reach for your hand
when the cup was empty,
I’d tell you to go home. I am home.
And I don’t wish for this
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