I suppose it’s like that.
The way the air rushes into your arms,
Running into your vessels.
He had a gift of making me feel like, I dunno,
A coin falling, tossed at the syllable of the thumb.
Or that I was the only person in the room.
Mother says buying curtains is what only adults do,
Mother bought my curtains for me, too bad I’m a child.
I ran into dark trails, looking for you.
Your touch is missed,
You were my lungs, vital like most things.
Did you dispose me of them? You did.
I could have slept on your sea bed body forever, so the poets say,
Till you were washed away like footprints in the sand,
When you left do you know where you went?
I could have slammed the lonely nights into the lack-lustre mornings.
Mother says love is the rope of two very unlikely lovers,
An anger and a happiness.
Painted with disillusionment,
You can only find it outdoors, away from the walls of your house.
I think Monet tried to depict it in ‘Waterlilies’.
It’s the air that cooks my heart,
And I can’t taste it singing down my throat,
And so I’ll wait for you in the hope it rushes back once more.