she always walked in with bells and balloons.
she emptied the cupboards of all of our food
she swept up the winter in bag made of thatch
she left by spring and she wouldn’t come back
she left in the morning and didn’t come back.
i opened the window to let in the day,
and she’d bury her lips all over my face.
she bundled her books and she piled her shoes
always saying she never had better to do.
always wasting her day with me; nine to noon.
now the land is too pale and the sea is too blue,
the air is never present now she’s left the room
and i’d search in the cupboards, I’d sleep in her patch.
but her scent never returned to my room.
she never came back to my pillow.
