All that’s left

You made a hollow place I could not touch. Your echoes lie in the empty shells of Easter. My memories of your splayed words cling to the bricks. You genuflected and mouse muttered ideas of a better place. Your insulting interior numbed the soft of your brain.


Gone like the wind. A tattered breeze that leaves behind your voices on wedding cans. The Big Adventure wrapped its urgent arms around your ideas (springing and sprinkling baby-possibility.) A whisper that takes you leaves behind ripples and rings that slide off the bricks.

An empty, unfurled playground is like a peach. The skin is porous and breaks up the sky, you used to lie in. You left me a cloud. It changes like the memories, shifting in a fragile world.

Your voice is empty in the still. There are no eyes, or hair that skips, or fingers that forget the applauding chip packet. Only a prickling haze is left. The droplets land and cool the heat of the debate. My foot looks for the languid lines of your steps.

My mind chases a dog’s tail. Conclusion flicks past like a road sign. I cannot find you. I keep on the watch for time, shredded seconds and feeble framed moments laughing away in breath fog.

The cattle masses look up to watch the glass tears scraping my face in a still-life motion. They giggle and knit up their eyebrows in frantic-fisted-frustration. The angry toffee coats the apple.

The stage is set, the actors have left. Curtain folds still look the same in a shrouded silence. The soundless voice of her escapes my head, ready to dance. Her performance is half certain. A puzzle (built up on bricks) performs.

Her body wraps and wrings my head in a calm dance. She looks too ordinary to say something, or mean the majority. She sways and skips. After a wheeze and four short puffs, she sits down like silent cigarette smoke.

The ends are burning, the lines are breaking, and her image leaves like a drunk ghost. Just letters lie in the dark, in the damp where the black light spreads the folds. I lift up the pages as mystic as scrolls throwing electric-energy into my hands.

I rub the creases. They smell like the folds of her skirt. The paper is veined and certain as skin. I can feel her pen as liquid as her fingers were. They curl around cartoons and scent the flowers. My own pen talks back, clumsy enough to be energetic. Hers is light like electricity.

My eyes are tired. My lamp that is lit, fills me with thick light, and draws the dust of dawn. I am tired. My ebullience is empty, with unconscious echoes sliding down into the dark, into night of nothing. The pages are there, waiting for me. Through the rails of lines, her pen photographs her hand for me. It hovers and twitches, strokes the page under the spotted, speckled-freckles. They lie on the skin like pure confetti, an aching constellation engraved in your eyes.

She said she wanted to be a paramedic, but she hated hospitals. It was the sterile smell that anaesthetized your nostrils, and where death floated like a fog. It was about the people. She loved the children. She could fill the minute, sponge-like eyes with blood-youth bonding.

It is still frightening, she stated. Out in the carpet-thick streets, she could help. Some days she could have palpable crimson strands of life flowing out. The webs of her fingers won’t catch everything – she would say – but it’s still one more hoist to lift the dead. She was right. Her passionate, lightning face would pull the future through the needle. No prick of regret left in her tender smile, just guts. And a warm raw hand.

Your scent lies in the empty shells of Easter. Your lithe foot dribbles into the puddle of my parting. That stretched smile still walks with me down the steps. You’ve left washed wishes with me to mull over. The space is taken out of my hollow place. It runs and folds back into the bricks. I watch the memories go just as I see your eyes and ceramic smile, looking back…at all that’s left.





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