We picked white roses
then as we slowly became undone, we threw
them at the waters edge.
We divided watching them sail from our view
for when something is over – it is the only thing to do.
You exiled me long ago; into those awkward empty spaces
allowing the summers heat to blister my back
whilst I alone, shaped the snowman’s smile.
I feast thoughtfully,
upon the last days of our freshness
distilling the taste of our uncorked laughter.
It could be any afternoon; in my wool buttoned
cardigan, fastened against the cold moist air.
I am not for connecting – time is but a clock ticking itself alone.
Rye bread and water, slip to bless these arterial walls
before the night
comes to tell me, that this is the colour of sleep.
Poppy September 13th 2014 ~xx~