almost always
sitting, we
hunched over
the table and
made paper
boats,
made cake
and milk tea,
made slow
dances
out of
matchsticks
on cardboard
dance floors,
made dusty-star
constellations.
moving upwards
now, i have
walked past it.
a small
and dusty,
wooden
thing. holding
nothing but
imaginary
old paper,
stained cups
and cardboard.
as i move
onwards
we are slowly
disappearing
into thin air.
one step;
the last of our
laughter is gone.
another step;
your hair has
escaped from
between
my fingers
and lost colour
and shape.
our desks are gone.
the sink, the stars
the spotted cat
holding its breath,
watching the bird in
our kitchen garden
— dissolved.
up,
up,
up,
in the
vastness
of the view
from up here,
i see
emptiness.
quiet,
whistling
wind.
breath.
bird.
trees.
oh.
th­ank
goodness.