A Diary Entry

Six ten.
Awake again.
Stay calm.
Slap the alarm.
I just feel completely empty.
Six twenty.

Seven oh five
I’ve come alive
Board a train
in drizzling rain,
find a seat that’s not too dirty.
Seven thirty.

Nine.
Avoid the Victoria Line.
I’ll walk instead.
Clear my head.
I’ll be late but I’m feeling naughty.
Nine forty.

Eleven.
My little creative heaven.
Feel pretty sweet
in my edit suite.
Let’s order flat whites again.
Eleven ten.

One.
We’re having larky fun.
I’m paid indecent rates
to giggle with my mates
but we’re bloody good at what we do.
Lunch at two.

Slow afternoon.
End of play can’t come too soon.
Up sticks
on the dot of six.
Cross the park to catch my train.
Six ten again.

Ah, none of this is really true.
This is all just what I do.
None of this is who I am.
None of this says ‘love sick man’.

In truth, at six and ten, and noon and two
all I do
is think of you.
Whatever I do at whatever time,
I’m mostly wishing you were mine.

Every hour of every day,
every day of every year,
I’ll spend it wishing you were here.

You’ve already read my real diary
posted here as poetry.
The time of day’s irrelevant
compared to what those poems meant.

And I meant every word I said.
Ten thirty.
Off to bed.