Written by Rosie Allabarton on Monday the 3rd of December 2012
We pushed two single beds together
and you wrote on the photo that I had died
of alcohol poisoning
a beer clutched to my chest or
a broken heart
as shards of glass poked through my dress.
Now I sleep sideways
on other people's sofas and other people
keep hold of my internal organs - what's left - and despite everything
I still hold my breath when I cross
the road looking both ways first.
I remember the field covered in a thick layer of fog
as we stood contemplating
where was best to love each other and I remember
after we'd ran across an entirely different field
you left me there and I froze to death
and then we didn't.
Always a coward with front doors and hellos
I threw tiny stones at your window
perhaps because you can't ask someone to leave by the window.
They just fall.