When you died there was death in every room.

I had to place my grieving in a box.
Three years round

I found myself weeping in a darkened cinema

as I listened to George Harrison sing, Here Comes the Sun.
I learn something

every time someone lets go.
With you, I wondered

how long does it take to perfect the method?

You tried and then tried again when no one was looking.
Now I ask,

what if it is rest and nothing else that we want?
From one exile to another, from one pain threshold to the next,

you gave me something I could never quite imagine without you:

poetry and subversive education.
I’d come away with books under my jumper, a quiet sky above my head.

In my mind’s eye your room still burns like the inside of a cigarette.