Whispers
in the air on the wind aren’t clear are
they there? Do you miss me?
But you’d always say “Bollocks, girl”
when I’d talk of other worlds. And you’d do it with that kindly smile like you
were enlightening a child. Then you’d say “and there’s no ghosts, no God no
Heaven, no Hell.... but I can tell you girl that there is today. So grab it. Live it. Fuck it.” With you, there
was no pretence. You made my world make perfect sense.
Whispers
in dreams like kisses feel real. Is it you?
We were meant to grow old together.
Disgracefully. Do wheelchair wheelies down care home corridors. Fill baths with
bubbles. Or jelly. Draw penises on sleeping staff’s foreheads – with a sharpie.
But you went and died. Died - not heroically or stoically but stupidly. Making
a cup of tea. I see it. Different ever time but you’re there, alone and slip slipping
away from life. From me. Gone in an instant, or slow drip drippings. But always
there’s the blood. That red sticky that floods your kitchen, and my mind. Indelibly.
Whispers Whispers I strain to hear hushed whispers. Don’t go.
I want to hear your laugh. Tattoo it
on my skin. Remember every moment. Like the night I came in, and found you, crossed
legged, naked, on our bed. Eating cold beans from the tin. On my antique pearl
embroidered bedspread. Tried to object but your infectious laugh grabbed me by
the throat, And you grabbed me and we made hard love instead. In utter hilarity.
On our bed. On my antique pearl
embroidered 57 variety stained bedspread.
Whispers. Whispers. Whispers.
You gave me spontaneity.
Taught me Carpe Diem.
To say “Sod ‘em”
“Stop crying girl
Cos there is today. Grab it, Live it. Fuck
it.
Move on”
“I’m trying, my love. I’m trying”
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