Armchair, a poem by Adam White, poet

One, wine stained armrest, right hand side,
Where, shakily, you hold the glass.
You sip, recall that long lost night,
That first taste you hold to the last.
His name was something forgotten,
Two or three gorgeous syllables
Slipping off your tongue and then gone,
Running the wild way of the bulls,
Thundering through streets screaming out,
Tortured by their poor upbringing,
Smashed on cheap, two-quid, crap cider,
Bellowing, debasing, singing.
His hand was both warm and searching.
Autumnal air at the park,
Just out of school, dumb, rebelling,
Grass blades itching your shameful arse.

Subtle subtext pours through your words
"The best (the first) I ever had."
Such reassurance for the birds,
He'd never answer your calls and
Pink cheeked, feeling foolish and flushed
You'd never trust a boy again
(Convincing yourself you were pushed,
Placing fault where you'd need not blame
For every blind drunk, lone hook-up
With some Breezer wielding nobhead
Who'd talk about his dick at length,
But shagged like a dog long dead.)
You spill a little more wine now.
Wipe it from your lap with your hand,
Wrinkled and rough sun-bed leather
The colour of coffee-stained sand.

One bedroom flat, small kitchenette,
Bath and shower in the same place,
Piss stained toilet due to neglect,
Make-up trails on the sink and your face.
Coils of alcohol rise from it.
The bed stinks of stale cigarettes,
The last man long gone from your side,
His pillow holds no shampoo scent,
No impression in the mattress,
No body lies in it's stiff folds,
An unmade, unwashed, filth-marked mess,
Left depressing, barren and cold.
Sleeping, the light from the TV
Seems to hit you just right and you're
Sixteen again, all youth and beauty,
Trapped in a body run down and poor.

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