Thursday, 4 August 2011


This year,
I sit on your side of the bed,
not having the heart to remove your pillow
stuffed with your talk.
Champagne bottle gagged with a cork.
July hurls light at the window,
shadows dropping like silks to the floor
and the bedroom door
where months have pooled.
A year where they chained up the sun.
Slim figure of one.

This year,
I will not send clowns to your doorstep.
I will not be at the table
flapping your card like a wing,
trying to sing,
taking champagne to the garden, watching stars
unstitch like a waterfall,
kissing you full on the lips.
Your hands on my hips.

This year, I shall pour myself a drink at midnight
and drink to you all the same.
You’ve forgotten my name.

This year,
I abandon my phone at midnight,
fling your pillow to the floor.
Scratch your name off the door.
I am not the name rising in candle-smoke,
the balloon rising up from your hand.
I understand.
This year, I will drink to you until
the champagne and cider renders me ill.
And maybe next year,
I will drink to you still.