She puts her tongue in my cheek
Softly
Like a gift
I cannot find enough air
Not without her
The storm has blown through
The bells ring
Empty packets travel like scurf on the tide
Cakes not eaten
Parties not thrown
He throws a ladder against the empty shop
Calendar Club
Defunct
Time no longer has meaning
But means all
He is picking for wires
The baby pram remains neatly abandoned
Rich pickings
Except there is no rich any more
No one left to push
It was ended
Long before the air ran out
We turn the carrier bag into a seat
Sit on the wall by the water
The oars chug like pistons
Wasted energy
Wasted breath
Some people still try to leave
We watch
The white hand is painted on the door
Brown ribbon in the dirt
They are taking down the building
Picking for wood
We put our heads down
Invisible
We will have to go back
To that place
It is the only way to find air
That thing we need
That thing we seek
Inside all we want is for it to be ended
But we do not have the heart
Or the white hand
We no longer think
But thinking is all we do
She puts her tongue in my cheek
Softly
Like a gift
I cannot find enough air
Not without her.
