Everything Reminds Me Of You

Everything reminds me of you.
No! I mean EVERYTHING reminds me of you.

There’s this performance poet
who was the warm-up act to a more famous performance poet
at a gig I was at, and,
without my glasses,
he reminded me of you.
But then I saw him again
when I did have my glasses
and I realised that
actually
the only real point of resemblance
is that you’re both vaguely blond
and it made me want to smash my glasses,
so then all vaguely blond men
would look like you.

The Equal Opportunities monitoring form
that came with the job application
I just filled in –
that reminded me of you:
as I, boringly, ticked ‘White British’,
my eyes were, naturally, drawn
to the far more exciting options
further down the page
and they fixed on one, as I thought to myself,
“That’s your ethnicity!”

And I know I’ll probably never get the job
and be stuck on Jobseekers’ fucking Allowance
for the rest of my natural life,
but it doesn’t matter,
because I know that I have touched
a piece of paper
in a drawer
in a filing cabinet
in the office of a Human Resources department somewhere
(which, according to their Data Protection Policy,
they may keep for up to five years!)
which mentions your ethnicity.

And, on the, sadly, extremely rare occasions
that you favourite one of my tweets on Twitter,
I love the way that the notifications
that pop up in my e-mail
have your name on them.
You’ve found your way into my Inbox,
which, come to think of it,
sounds like it ought to be
some kind of sexual euphemism
and, God, I wish it was!

And I looked your name up
on one of those baby name websites
and it turns out it means
the exact same thing in Celtic
that my name means in Greek,
so now even my own name reminds me of you,
which is a bit unfortunate,
as now, every time someone calls me,
instead of answering them,
I just sit there staring wistfully into the middle distance
with a little streak of dribble running down my chin.

And I know I’m old enough to be your mother
and I know you’ve already got a girlfriend
and you’re an uber hottie and I’m a bit of a minger
and if you ever heard this poem and realised it was about you,
well, you’d probably take out a restraining order…

….but, then, there’d be a restraining order
with both our names on it!
And a restraining order is a legal document, right?
Well, so is a marriage certificate!
So it would be a bit like us getting married,
but just not quite.

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