We met in a Wetherspoons after the show,
at which I’d seen you losing your mind,
song by song steadily in the front row,
during the encore I had dreams of us entwined.
And later I left my brains on your bedroom floor
forgotten underneath the merch you’d bought
and stumbled drunk towards your bedroom door
to find it locked, so climbed down to the porch.
Walked home through the darkened streets
as the sun broke upon you, bound in bedsheets.
Think of me whenever you next go to a concert,
having lost my mind underneath that shirt.
Because this is the closest I can come to an apology;
coward that I am, and likely always will be.
Chichester, March 2017