Southampton

48 hours of Southampton, its solid sodium lights and freezing frosted windows,
I knew I would have forgotten the way if I thought, so I stopped thinking and the car found its own way to my homes and friends, which are the same thing,
my bike knew which pavement to cross and what street to avoid, my head didn't know but my thighs and tall tyres knew Bevois Valley (the way up, and then the way down) ;
Ginny's red door shutting with a loud bang of glass and wood, that I heard and interpreted as a promise of delights every next time I'd pop in the next hour or the next day or the next week-end, and then the next year, her hearing aid playing electronic music while we talked too loudly and too much and too easily about too many things,
the soft red and white fur of my brother's silent cat on my dark grey socks standing in silence around my cold feet, the fits of laughter I had in the kitchen of Priory Road with Lea and him and friends now flatly scattered in every corners and cracks in the ceiling above me,
Tom's perfect hugs and the carpeted step before the kitchen's lino where I could sit being both inside and outside and have a tea in less time it took to make it, happy to be able to be, how we felt unashamed and without regrets at everybody's surprised but ours,
and Paola's dark never ending curling hair while we understood with and without talking what we were talking about, and realised we are happy in our lives while the caramel syrup of our London Fog got straight in our blood stream after we ran up and down Bittern Park in the morning, trying to avoid the swans and the thick joint smoke,
and Saphisha's opening and closing green eyes reflecting the sun back at Paola and I sitting on the pavement of Coventry Road, enjoying the warmth of a december noon as much as Saphisha, rolling her whole body in the dust and the hitting sun,
the clicking sound of Tom's red van's side mirror put out before the sound of the metal door and rusty starter,
and Diana's smart gaze while we talk like we did one year ago like it was one week ago, her beautiful enthusiasm lavishing from her side of the light wooden table to my side of the table and into my coffee in Portswood,
and the dark red lights of the reggae bass allowing my throat and eyes to sweat while the same bodies moved the same ways in the same venues the same saturday nights,
I didn't see mayflower park, I saw my friends instead.