Waking early, the first thing is to see
if I’m Facebooked or Tweeted.
I’ve got that newfangled Internet Addiction Disorder.
I don’t work, so I drink coffee then walk.
I say hello to everybody.
Those who don’t catch my eye haven’t realised,
that we’re all navigating this confusion called self.
The sooner we sense commonality,
the sooner we smile.
This is like day one, only I can’t afford Costa.
The boating lake woman thinks my pepsi is beer.
I say, “I’m a tee-total nonsmoker.”
Her husband asks if I’m a virgin. The remainder
is spent enjoying music and surfing the web.
I “meet” this new online poet.
I visit town. Despite being broke,
I buy a box-set of AC/DC and listen all day.
I get excited and spam Facebook with track names.
My neighbours “rock” through a thin wall.
In the morning it clicks.
I haven’t thought about her for three days.
I realise with guilt, then acceptance,
that I’ve stopped mourning.
I recognise that I’ve mourned
for the past eighteen months.
With this ring …
I took it off today:
the ring that I proudly wore
for eight years.
I had to write this poem
to mark the time
that my message faded.
I date writing.
I don’t know if the woman
in the café has a BF.
I think I’m BS.
I’ll talk in the hope that she’s
What about my baggage?
I’ve taken it off whilst writing.
I’ll put it with hers.
I could’ve waited till exactly two years had past,
but that would be
Michael Holme is an English poet and musician. When not reading, writing or playing, he’s online. Some of his poems can be googled, others are in print in Boston Literary Magazine, Kestrel, Time of Singing and Poppy Road Review. He studied poetry with Alison Chisholm.