Your death was an oil spill
In the sea of my late twenties
I kept wanting to ask people,
How was your summer?
And then catching myself
because it was already December –
Walking past advent calendars
on shop shelves
Counting down to year one
of life without you
My brain turned sticky, black
My delicate, feathery thoughts
That usually beat and flutter so freely,
Congealed –
Someone asks me a question and
I blink blankly back at them,
Seconds later mutter
‘oh’, ‘maybe’, ‘okay’, ‘sure’
And I see them slow down,
Get confused, freeze up too.
I drag others into the mire.
Walking the dog
Like I’m walking through treacle,
Misjudging the cars as I cross the road,
Waiting half an hour on the kerb
Searching for a gap or opportunity;
Other times trusting
And bringing motorbikes screeching
To a stop ahead of me,
Feeling as though any small thing,
Any human sized thing,
Will surely
never
reach
me