That night, I didn’t care about the news, reels, groceries, speeding Glaswegian winds

announcing March in their sultriness, yet still holding on to December by a thread

like a toxic ex-partner.

I struggle with anxiety, and with purple veins popping out of the skin on my arms,

I rushed downstairs with something quick on the go.

I thought that perhaps, only maybe, if I gave it a chance,

I wouldn’t have to drink alone that night like a – let’s be honest – pathetic twenty-something who writes obituaries in bulk having not attended a single funeral.

That night, I didn’t care about the news, notifications, the dust on my drawers.

I also didn’t care about my minor mental explorations

of what the drive could be like if I truly knew how to navigate the road.

I couldn’t stop the anxiety. No matter how many times I stepped on my own foot

or how many affirmations I repeated to the toilet mirror –

I was still the same guy who is terrified that something good could actually happen.

So even though I failed that night,

and I didn’t manage you didn’t want me to see you again that weekend,

I still feel like I made an important step towards gaining a better sense of myself.

And most importantly, for one night

I didn’t care about the news, notifications, reels, groceries – only about you

and visiting you one day in Penzance.