The promise.

That swan pressed mirror
caught the moonlight’s shimmer
as I looked deep into the glass,
and asked the heavens reflected ‘round my face
what would become of us.
And as they rippled and shook
with each step that I took,
I knew they’d heard, and shuddered.

Because I never cared much
for Florence or her Machine
until I was racing up your Street
through the first storm of Winter,
wearing my dark brown boots,
and my scarlet red bra.

Those boots have seen it all.
And now, I suppose your neighbours have too.

Bare chested, small breasted,
cares cast on the sleeve of a dress
draped over the branches of a hedge
that blew in the wind,
while the City dimmed
in the distance.

Blood brothers, word lovers,
another 90’s Girl Group marathon,
and one last menthol on the balcony
before I ask for the hundred-thousandth time
where we even are exactly,
so that I can smile quietly in the dark
of the back seat of another garishly yellow taxi,
entranced through the glass, by the trembling stars
and hope in the promise.