There’s a smile on my face,
but it’s made of plaster cast.
In my hand I hold
the burnt remains of paper wishes.
I crumple them tightly and wish again for them to vanish.
You’d never know the anger in my fist
from the smile on my face.

I’m standing in the fairground that I dreamed of
- a ruined rollercoaster –
my other hand holding onto the red balloon I wanted.
But there is no balloon.
Not of any colour.
Instead, my fingers scrabble for a handhold in hope.
If I lose grip,
it’s over.

A promise of a red balloon,
but a promise made of matchsticks.
I tell myself
that matchsticks are stronger than flames
but it’s hard to believe even that now.

Seven hundred and eighty-five.
7. 8. 5.
Promises of red balloons
floating from your lips like a streamer
or a piece of candyfloss.
But there is no balloon.
Not of any colour.

My hopeless heart can’t help but hope.
Those you love will never fail you.
But they always do.
7. 8. 5.
That’s how many times.
My plaster cast smile does not falter.
This longing ache,
maybe that is love.

I walk in silence,
keeping tight hold of my red balloon,
but there is no balloon.
Not of any colour.