the bits in the orange juice

I didn't fall in love when I was 15 with the girl

who had wide brown eyes and who asked me

to date her through four 8tracks playlists

of songs that meant something to us,

because statistically, nobody ends up

marrying the person they date in high school

and I've heard that first heartbreaks

are always the worst.

And the best friend with a smile like two sugars and milk

and a crumpet on a warm Saturday morning in July,

well - I stopped spending time with her

the moment I found out she was planning to live abroad eventually,

even though I've never been as happy

as I was when we were 17 and skipping class to walk in the forest;

it's better not to get attached

if you know they're going to leave.

And when I got my first house at 25 I kept it plain;

I didn't paint the underside of the archway navy, with misshapen

gold stars, I washed heavy white Dulux strokes that choked

the memories out of the walls and kept it clean, presentable -

because who lives in a two-bedroom terrace their whole life?

Wouldn't it be so much harder to sell? To convince myself

to move on from? Maybe I would paint the night sky

on the ceiling of my final house.

I distanced myself from my parents, pulling away

from the anticipatory grief like a child in the pool

submerging himself underwater so he can't hear his mum

calling him inside for dinner.

And I did not die young. I was not hit by a bus.

I never told anybody I loved them.

I died in my bed at 76, modest and final, and thought

"Oh, god. After all that, none of it was forever anyway."