Chasing a night closure on the M5,
me always wishing you were mine
but we were always itching for time
and it took this boy less than a week
to change his mind.
The bump under tyre,
tap trapping of the keyboard —
time creates our mistakes.
There are types of
boys that make you think
you can’t change,
sitting all deranged…
your gift is a month to wait.
I sat at the end of my bed
nightly, waiting for him to pull out
his phone and play a game
of ignoring the message under my name.
Head hangs loose on a line and a lie
‘I wasn’t looking for anything serious’
but the ‘It’s different this time’.
At 2.38 am, blurry screen
I got used to feeling
in between something
and nothing with him.
On the few nights
he had actually spared for me
I would lie awake and watch him breathing
the sparkles of the night, my audience,
I whispered out some truths to
the dark air and his sleeping body.
Yet his hair was still upright,
Teeth locked down for a smile,
You shouldn’t trust a man who
looks cute sleeping.
You blink, the rest of your coffee
in the sink and it’s another morning
he’s making you feel alone.
Nail Biting by South Friars Bay
/ with Conditions
Shipwrecked, South Friars Bay
my mother takes us away
to reward an all clear.
The boy is the way
the sun looks with its
head eclipsed by the moon,
tipped to the side too soon
and then comes the darkness —
every part of the day leaving.
I entertain myself —
I’m watching the waves
fighting soft knuckled
to see who can reach
the furthest up the beach.
The orange lights on the bay
made me text: ‘I may
I crushed my palm into the sand,
you don’t like it
when your men bite their nails.
When my nails sting —
breaststroke in the sea.
Were you doing a favour,
changing the bad habit in me?
There was a silence between you and him
knotting you into his sheets
as he stroked the patch of dry skin
under your knee.
The hair on his legs stood to attention
like guards for battle.
He asked you; ‘Do you have bed bugs?’
There was a kissing between you and him
when you tasted on his tongue
the lovers who confused you.
You both commented on it
that you’d shared this in a strange way.
So, then you babbled away until
you felt you had taken a joke too far
when he turned away to sleep.
But then there was a memory between you and him
when his breathing halted,
it expired into a snore
and again, you searched
for a promise in the collage
of scars and hair on his neck
and the way they connect
to his hairline.
There was a cease-fire then between you and him
until he turned over in the morning
his face dry
the fluffy light fitting into
his morning moan.
You traced each other with a fingernail
and told the window
it was invading your weekday.
There was a truce between you and him
when the unbidden noon hurried in
the curtain opened
and he sat slouching up against his pillow
tapping his fingers on the wall
the sound telling you
it was time to start the dangerous thing
they call the day.
There was silence between you and him
when you walked ten minutes home
and you worried over his own worries
enough to need two coffees
to covet your breath
remove this taste
of being left on ‘read’.
Louis Glazzard was born and raised in Yorkshire, England. After graduating with a degree in English Literature, Louis has been working as a multi-discipline queer writer and poet in Manchester. Louis’ poems have been featured and shared in various creative spaces across Manchester and beyond, including the BBC Radio Manchester, Waterside Arts and London LGBTQ+ community centre. Louis’ portfolio balances bright colours and thoughtful words.