Sonnet for S. by Adam Napier

There’s this sort of dateless celebration I keep
in my head an anonymous day in Newcastle
our tired feet spongy our lungs hardening a thousand
lips puckering muttering rough static in my chest.
It wasn’t the F-word I didn’t think. Not until
our souls shook hands over green tea steam in
between the sushi bar and the sweet section. It
made you sick in your stomach (the tea I mean)
but the invisible lipstick left on the cup kissed me
secondhandedly. We freewheeled through talk – GCSEs
boys girls boys boys Irene Adler (how she wasn’t you) –
we were straight and 2D and all edges we were the napkins
we origami-ed around ourselves. It’s too many months too
late to ask you if we’re folded into the right shape.