We did not rollerblade. We did not keep secrets. He was not still
in love. I did not bring my telescope and did not know the names of stars.
He did not pretend to like the sound of my book.
We did not order these. The bones did not pull away with the flesh.
I was not squeamish, this was not the same as anything.
The fish were not a matching pair. The river was not clean white noise.
Lydia Allison is a poet, writing facilitator, creative mentor, and tutor. Her poetry has appeared in print and online. She likes to write about working, travelling and eating. You can find out more at lydiaallison.com, and follow her on twitter @lydiarallison.