The pigeons step on the glass in the pub garden,

A tragic kind of metaphor for the way full hurt goes unknown.

Smash a glass and call it an accident,

No one thinks about the pigeon.

I will work my way into this metaphor,

(As I always tend to do),

I will tender my words to make myself the pigeon and make the glass you.

You grew cold in December,

(Even colder in July),

You say you didn’t want this but you know that I

Hate to be the pigeon and I hate to call you the glass.

I hate to think we were the thing that couldn’t last.

Smash another glass and move somewhere far,

Move to Antarctica but I’ll always know what you are,

You’re the man that throws the glass five pints down at the pub,

To forget the smell of nutmeg and cinnamon at the Christmas market where we met.

Please just don’t forget about the next pigeon you will hurt,

When you hurl that half-drunk pint.

Please don’t forget I’m the girl you loved before my flight away from the glass and away from the man

You become when you try to forget who I am.