I found your blue sweater under my bed,
the one you were wearing when I introduced you to Radiohead.
You said that OK Computer was ‘just okay’
and I was slightly insulted that you thought of it that way.
You’d bought the sweater because Taylor Swift had worn one like it.
I gave it to Jake to give back to you after we split.
It’s probably under his bed now,
gathering dust on the other side of town.
I found the pictures on my phone from the party at Matt’s,
where you got drunk and spent the night chasing his cats.
You were too happy and I wasn’t happy enough,
playing blackjack at the table and collecting clubs.
I remember your vodka inspired grin
and me, wishing there was a taxi outside to take you home in.
There wasn’t and we walked,
then when you’d sobered up and slept we talked.
I made you breakfast as if it would help,
burnt scrambled eggs and the way I really felt.
I was leaving home in September,
and we wouldn’t last until December.
I told you, and you cried
so I put on Bleed American while you waited for Jane to arrive.
She took you home as I switched to The Queen Is Dead
and then – to For Emma, Forever Ago instead.
It seemed to suit my mood better;
It did when I found the sweater.