It seems that whenever I meet up with this old friend
Of mine our conversation will, almost always, turn
To her, the one who got away…
The one who enticed both of us as our drunken fun
Convinced us both that here was someone who had
Come especially for us but just as I realised she was
Just about perfect she moved away…
And I was broken. She was just too too much, she
Could handle her booze like a champion drinker &
I wish I could remember the night we drank six bottles
Of wine & then went out…
And she read all the good stuff, all the beat stuff
I loved & I’d wow her with things she didn’t know
& she loved all my crazy music & one night we
Kissed before I threw her in the back of a taxi
But somehow after all of that she got away…
And I remain here, slightly moved on from those
Mad old daze, those mad old nights, that mad old
Life but if I miss something from all those years
Of drunken fun on the street of ill-repute it’ll be
Her as now I can only dream of someone like that!
Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton, England. Recent poems have been published at Fixator Press, Underbelly Press, Broken Teacup, Dear Booze, Horror Sleaze Trash, Mad Swirl, Thirteen Myna Birds and in The Good Press’ The Paper. His first collection is currently doing the rounds of various small press publishers.