A poem from Aki Schilz, articulating the wistful desire to unspool time and extract a tender passage from life’s story. First published in our ‘Time’ issue.

I would unwind you from my body, until

our separated bodies lay innocently side by side
on the bed in the room with the crooked curtain rail

that caused the sun to fall in broken pieces on the floor.

I would uncurl your fingers from each strand of my hair,
divorce your lips from mine to let the air between them

become words to speak away the silence that led to
that first kiss. And, unkissed, I would walk backwards

away from your house, down the hill towards the harbour
past the ships and birds and moorings. I would walk

backwards to the train station to take my seat and forget,
halfway home, where I was going because I’d never been there,

in the room with the broken sunlight and the crooked curtain rail,
the photographs and our hands, that never touched above our heads.

Unkissed, I would lie at home, not thinking about you,
not falling in love with you, not falling in love with you,

so I would not have to wish, years later, that I could undo you.

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