Dinner: Pasta bake. Tuna corn and cheese,
taken from the freezer, microwaved to eat.

I’d made a double batch for three,
you and Christopher and me, but
you lie beyond return and Chris now lives
in a multi-storey white apartment
where ferries dance on harbour views.

My mind is schizoid, contemplating two thoughts,
self contradictory but each reflects real life.
Tears are a regular companion, constantly
acclimatising to an absence that absinthe might cure.
For a few seconds.

I pick up a book to read, but the words jumble,
jingle through my mind without tossing out
an anchor to take hold. Turning on the TV
is even more inane than it once was, distractions
distort my brain, it runs grey, static grey.

In the kitchen, I hear the sound of a creak:
Some cooking surface cooling as the microwave
surrenders the last of its steam. Floorboards
floating freely move against loose nails,
cold air flows from below against sum warmed cork.

“Are you OK, honey”, my brain starts to turn over
like a sluggish winter engine, then stutters to a halt
before it can activate the words: No one here
to talk to. Nine months on and still it thinks,
hopes, needs, craves your presence.

Memories; I touch your arm as we pass in the hall,
roll close in the bed to kiss you goodnight,
a smile tracing your lips, uplifted towards me,
a squeeze from your hand. Just wanting,
wanting, wanting the things that go bump in the night
to be you.


                                 10 June 2024