What we could’ve been:

Mugs of tea on the back porch that warm our fingertips as our still-sleepy eyes meet through the steam.

Food shopping on Tuesday afternoons. Talking about your latest idea to put on a canvas in aisle five while you reach for the flour. What are we having for dinner?

Fingers intertwined in art exhibitions.

Chrysanthemums on doorsteps.

Riding bicycles barefoot down side streets.

Arms littered with each other’s sketches and words. Inked. This is permanent.

Reading books to nephews after a family dinner. No grey-coloured soup – you know the type. We’ll fall asleep on my sister’s couch.

Last minute tickets to a gig tonight. Put on your best shirt, we’re going out. My shout.

People watching. Cloud watching. Stargazing – though you’re the brightest one in my eyes.

Puddle-jumping. Mixtape-making. You and six strings, me on the horn. Developed film of moments on Sundays when we call in sick.

Us. We could’ve been us.

What we could be:

Friends. Maybe in a couple of years, once the bruises fade and the aches stop aching.

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