In you, I spend a year of loneliness. In you, I spend the mountains of a home I took for granted; the sea I tried to carry with me in a roseglass vial; damp moss and lichens climbing over limey walls in rainbreath. A bottle of sugarpills left at the station. A poem for a kiss and a leaf pressed in a book for comfort. When I climbed onto the deck of the ferry last November the sky was lilac (running away, again yes, damp in my mother's best coat - stolen in frenzy from it's hook on the back door.) I miss the world I held in porcelain, just as I craved this one then.
But here, after all, a hand finds my waist and I rain in technicolour. The light makes stripes across my thighs and my wrists fall limp in submission. I whisper the small death away again.