The room unpacked. Your clothes on the bed, your notebooks spread on the desk. We run through your papers, your old accounts. Deconstruct what’s left. Piles for the charity shop, to keep, to hand me down. I check the pockets of your coat. The one you’d wear as we’d walk in the Spring. Pull out a tissue, a worn 20p piece, a toffee wrapper that lost it’s shine. I hold onto it, see you unwrapping it, passing one to me. A secret just for us, those years ago. Years ago. I rub the wrapper as the tears sting. Put it in my pocket. Keep you safe. A little longer.

Bird Song

4.30 I wake, the birds are singing outside our window. I lay alone. Listen. Their clear whistle punches through the early morning. The day not bright, not quite ready for their chorous. Yet they sing. Shout aloud. I scream. Tears run down my face. They are alive, so alive. You’re not there. Still not there. Can you hear them? Hear them sing.