By | 1 May 2014

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.

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