<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
[Don\u2019t think I didn\u2019t think it]<\/strong><\/p>\n Don\u2019t think I didn\u2019t think it Don\u2019t think I didn\u2019t think it Don\u2019t think I didn\u2019t think it Don\u2019t think <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Adam Napier<\/strong> is a student from Newcastle who writes in any snatch of time he can find. He’s previously been published in The Cadaverine, The Delinquent<\/em> and has poems upcoming in 3:AM Magazine.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" [Don\u2019t think I didn\u2019t think it] Don\u2019t think I didn\u2019t think it running down streetlamp-lit streets, skinny jeans, razorburn between my ribs and the phone between my fingers, digital clock tick-tocking six hours until you needed to be up. Don\u2019t think I didn\u2019t think it when we danced an Ode to Walt Whitman […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4399","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4399","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4399"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4399\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4401,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4399\/revisions\/4401"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4399"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4399"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4399"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nrunning down streetlamp-lit streets,
\nskinny jeans, razorburn between my
\nribs and the phone between my fingers,
\ndigital clock tick-tocking six hours
\nuntil you needed to be up.<\/p>\n
\nwhen we danced an Ode to Walt Whitman
\namong the blue collar bacchants
\nand I recycled the shouty, strobe-light words:
\n\u2018you light up my life like nobody else\u2019
\nand everyone else in the room could see it.<\/p>\n
\nwith stars dripping all over
\nme as I read the electronic \u2018goodnight\u2019s,
\nwith lunch
\na lump
\nin my paper stomach, with no missed calls,
\nwith the bus stressing all over
\nme as I read the SMS \u2018goodmorning\u2019s.<\/p>\n
\nI don\u2019t think
\nabout you.<\/p>\n