One of my friends had a dog who would run
in circles around her garden until there was
a trench around the perimeter. You’ve been
a part of my life for so long I didn’t realise
how much you’d become part of the landscape.
It is not until you tell me I’m your best friend
that I realise you’re mine. I realise it slowly.
There is nothing groundbreaking about our
friendship, nothing new in all the text messages
and the thousand games of pool, long walks
over muddy ground, but suddenly I am
seeing that you know me better
than all the rest of my friends put together.
All my buried secrets. It’s not until we are sat
together in your garden, cross legged on the grass
next to the tomatoes talking about the future
that I realise and can’t picture one without you.
You have worn your name into my bones
and it didn’t hurt at all. There was no engraving,
no sharpened knife, just years of you
running laps, four-hour phone calls and
late night drives and all the times
we went to each other before anyone else.
I feel as though you have snuck up on me,
pushed your way into my life by inches
set up shop in my chest
without me even noticing
it’s you, isn’t it?
Rhiannon Willson is a queer poet who spends her spare time playing scrabble with old ladies and trying to learn how to rollerskate. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Royal Rose Mag, Dreams Walking and Sturgeon Review, among others. She can be found on twitter @rhiannonwillson or through her website, rhiannonwillson.co.uk