December is hard.
A month by any other name would still smell of sorrow.
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,
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…
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.
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