In this poem you are holding sunflowers at 6am on a Monday morning.
In this poem we swear by fate when you hear your favourite song on the radio.
In this poem you are still in isle six stacking the Tim Tams on top of the Oreos asking me why people would ever choose a biscuit without cream in the middle.
In this poem you still bite your nails.
In this poem you still mix your ice cream till it melts into soup.
In this poem you still wear your makeup too thick, trying to cover the freckles that speckled your nose, cracking your knuckles, rubbing your temple as you deal with customers that heckle you behind the register.
In this poem you still pat every Labrador we see on our morning walks.
In this poem you still stand on the pier at sunset.
In this poem your number is still in my phone.
In this poem I still smell your perfume when I walk into the staffroom.
In this poem you are still funny, middle finger up, yelling out the car window, running as fast as you can, whenever you can, never greeting a stranger with a smile, but rather a poked out tounge.
In this poem you say ‘see you later’ not ‘goodbye’.
In this poem we still work every shift together.
In this poem I do not quit the job we shared.
In this poem walking down the isle of a supermarket does not feel like defeat, I do not taste copper like memories that are wedged in my back molars.
In this poem I do not flinch at ‘have a nice day’, I do not keep every receipt I am handed, I do not want to throw up in the shopping trolley.
In this poem I hand you flowers on your 25th birthday, I do not lay them on your grave.
In this poem I write the reference for your next job, not your obituary for the local paper.
In this poem you are still alive.
In this poem I do not write this poem.
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
jbbartram-illu
germansingergirl
kaledo-art
kianamaiart
andulkaphoto
