I'm old fashioned enough to remember when turquoise was not for boys, a nice enough colour and with healing properties apparently, but it's not for me.

I dress in grey,
battleship grey to
match my face on
any given day
and
it seems I've been
given
lots of days,

She says,
that I should mend my ways,
wonder if mending the car
counts.

Dear self,
In losing you

Days seem blurry
Nights seem scary

Heart grows weary
Eyes turn teary

I lost the merry
I lost the power to write my story

I go where you go.  
I am  in your pores.

I am woven into the  curls
of your red hair.  I push memories
daily through your substantial
mind.

You are host to all the

years of our exile.  I am the
itch you wake to in the
long night.

I will be with you and
when you make love to
your wife I will be beside you.
It will be the secret you can
never tell.

We are the dreams in which
we play when night comes

and the cigarette smoke twins
memory forms, ephemeral
as the love which wraps the past
into the omnipresent

We.


Caroline Shank
12.3.21