December is hard.

Birthday,

death,

Christmas,

funeral.

A month by any other name would still smell of sorrow.

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I’m scared of going home,

sleeping where you died.

Blue walls, pineapple delight.

Scared is not the right word…

you were always a better poet than me, but I can’t show you what I write,

anymore.

I’ve been away and I like the strangeness

I found a home in placelessness.

Returning means seeing it afresh,

blue walls, pineapple delight.

A room by any other name…

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But I am coming home,

whatever that means.

Travelling forward in time to visit the past.

To meet with you in memory,

and hope it doesn’t hurt too much.