Pink Patios

Too old and too young | bare foot cliff climbing |slit soles and split souls | falling in between the waves | yellow dinghies and long grey ships | watercolour, cotton birds and broken figurines | super-glue porcelain smiles and plastic guns | pick ‘n’ mix afternoons drawing in The Little Room | stolen ice-cream sandwiches on hot pink patios with sand encrusted fingers stretching up to oceanic skies in sun roof flight | castles, crabs and the never ending seagull caw | raw with jellyfish sting on golden sea salted skin.

– This is the city of my interior. These are my continents.

Summer is coming and the summers always belonged to you. I hold tight to those eternal halcyon days – short lived and enduring, like a fast manufactured scar, lethargic in its fading – and if I ever let go I assure you that they will have claw marks all over them.
I have rattled the mystics and the stars to find you since that last sad, goodbye-eyed smile, embracing you straight through as you gifted me with the secrets of annihilation. I have heard you cry in an empty room. I have cast the stones and stormed in the cave. I have opened my eyes and dared into the darkness, listened between the gaps to white noise, red eyes and black mascara lines. I have swung the pendulum and carried it to your grave. I have protected the others, had mercy on your soul. I have written it and I have burned it again. And all of this I have, and do and will. Because I never gave my thanks and you, you never begged forgiveness and whatever I could say would be too much and it might never be enough.

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