dead flower grave

I dwell in the place where it’s never quite dark and the stars hide from industrial gaze.

I’m trying to move away but your ghost keeps reeling me back in; that time you got the fish-hook stuck in your finger.

I thought that, as long as I’d listened to enough Phil Elverum, I’d be ready for anything.

You are no more: nothing. A memory that I’ve already forgotten, now just strange shades; a bright lipstick, a pale stroke.

I wandered through our fairy garden and found you hanging from The Faraway Tree.

A rubber duck, a measured sigh; one last tear from your clotted eyes.

A funeral that reminded me of that watered-down ribena. I can only pick out so many sultanas from the Venetian biscuits.

Where was I? Not at the end, but when it mattered? The metropolitan imperialist must step down.

The fairy shop is long gone, re-opened only to close months later. I feel an alien to that town, an alien to my past – an alien to you. Where are you? No response. Blank. Barely an eviction notice. A sorry note pasted on the window to those that would stop by – not to purchase, just to look.

The sole unbeliever, a thorn amongst the roses. That lone ancient quiver that your death composes. There is no god here, at least not one that I’ve met. I cannot feel you near me, please don’t shut your eyelids.

Did you see me that time?, when you’d been gone several days but you opened those big bovine things and stared at me, mouth making jumbled but silent motions. I don’t want to look at the neuroscience, I just want to look at you like that again.

What were you trying to say?

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