Still they sit in the shed. Empty. Cold. Lifeless Never looked at, she wonders why she keeps them. Just hang onto them. They may be of use. Or do they represent something else?
Her. Love for her. Annoyance of her. They are from her address. Stickers of a home no longer visited. They must not be tossed out. Spiders can weave their fine homes. But never thrown. Never thrown. Always at my home.
Nothing ever lasts forever, truly lasts.
Like that night we walked together.
By the twinkling beck I fell into your arms,
aching for your lips. Against the skeletal Sycamore
your very being wanted much more.
But I was only fifteen.
That protective coat you had once offered
was gone. Pulled from my body like a hulled
Rapeseed husk. Now discoloured shapes
lie in my muddied heart like leaves.
In the deep brown crevices of a tilled land.