I catch myself thinking about you at night, and the way you remember the key moments of people in your life. The way you celebrate their achievements. The way you give any room what it wants; light, dark, finger food, a performance. You’re holding a can of IPA in a kitchen neither of us own, listing the things you think you are made of: red blots on cheeks, t-shirts that don’t fit, hair that won’t stop receding. I catch myself thinking about you at night, and the way your beard is a nest for anyone who needs a safe place to rest.
© Carl Burkitt 2022