My Friend

I still dip my french fries in Strawberry milkshake at McDonald's,

and give them little hats of pink foam,

like we used to.

And I remember how you like to put Sriracha on your Butter Chicken,

I still think it's a travesty.

But it makes me smile.

When the first snow falls, I wait for a quiet moment and roll down the hill we used to play on.

I remember your face, ruddy with joy and cold,

and I look at the new lines on my hands

feeling time draw out behind me like a string.

We are both becoming old -

but separately.

This was never the plan.

Yet here I am making eggs the way you like them,

wearing shoes I bought when we were friends,

reading new books.

Remembering how you always skipped to the end,

to see if it was worth reading you said.

We're not friends anymore,

but I wish you well.

I wish you cold, crisp pillows on hot nights,

and finding a fiver in your pocket when you're skint,

and no creases in your blouses,

and no drafts in whatever houses you live in.

I wish you love.

And the kind of friendship we used to have.

And when I dip my french fries in Strawberry milkshake,

I'll leave the crispiest one for you.

Like I always used to do.