It was bitter,
and two parcel tape plasters held open the department store doors
as we picked through the homeware section of plates and Denby bowls.
We rifled through the flannels appalled none matched our bathroom colour scheme,
no Serrano red steaks worthy of our face,
just dune dust beige priced at twenty five quid for three,
or the cream ones which never do, never suit.
We should’ve shopped online, I admit it.
I should've listened to you en route when I had the chance to,
but these bank holiday nectar card bonus points don’t come around all that often,
especially as we were meant to be skiing this christmas and could quite possibly miss their trug deal of the year
and then you left for the moon.
You appear voiceless on the other end of our catch up calls 'cos all has been said already;
you used to talk like you owned two libraries,
talked like Radio 4,
you’d seen the seven seas from space and joked there maybe more.
I wait by the phone for that ringtone we still disagree upon to ring, and when it doesn’t
I crawl out of rabbit holes
through Shawshank walls
into aquarium pools
and sink to the edge of the solar system
where I wait with 4G and Snake 3D for you to lift my spirits with wisdom.
I’m not bitter just sad you never said goodbye with a card,
anyway, who needs a super moon when you've the nape of a little spoon Labrador to make you feel as tall as you did.