Two of my friends committing suicide
in the same twelve months. One of them
on his birthday, his mobile phone
full of unread messages, his body
full of drink and drugs, as if he’d been
having too much fun. The other found
on the street, as if she’d flown down
from her high window, following
the pigeons that she loved. Both were alone
in the end, both sociable. I swim
in the evenings late, alone, like some
half-hearted suicide. The other half
of my heart stays waiting on the shore,
keeping watch. It wants to be alive.
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