Baby’s Breath

On rainy days

I give myself permission

To touch the glass

And see your remains:

Tissues, shadows,

All that is left

Of you.

Dancing with ghosts

Over dark hills.

Skylarks, old dear.

When I stand in your old room

I feel so sad that I masturbate myself.

Bees feast in tartan plumes,

Birds hanging on threads.

An old donkey hobbled

Into the mists.


A pocket full of posies.

Your tiny hands tremble away

From my throat. Jack-daw.

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