The bricks and mortar are not pretty.
Semi-modern, terraced, magnolia painted –
each street lined with nosy neighbours
among copy-and-paste suburbia.

SUVs and sensible
hatchbacks sleep in the driveways.
There's a bus stop nearby,
but the buses only run Monday

to Friday. The sea is so close
but hidden
by train tracks, and an ice cream van
calls every Thursday.

The wardrobes are empty, skirting
boards cleaned.
I sob into the sink,
clutching the porcelain rim to my ribs,

pressing my hands to my cheeks.
I have no home to go home to,
just a flat with no gas,
making promises of new beginnings.

Offering bags of pretty things
to fill up my life with.
On the last night, we climbed
up the obelisk

to watch the starry city lights
sparkle across the bay.
The smokestacks stretch
as if it were morning. I want to kiss

this year goodbye,
but keep holding on
‘til each finger loosens
and slip into a new way to live my days.