everything out of touch, in storage
misremembered point of views
the folded blanket on an overused mattress
waiting for the dead
when your touch stopped feeling welcome
photographs that didn’t make it into the coffin with you
the reasons why my body taught itself self-defence
your failed outline on the pillow
listening to your favourite song as if it could save your life
verbs without action
the nuances in wanting to die
waiting for me to find you
last active, last active, last active
the things you took pictures of
how you keep existing on social media
standstill
seen at 00:22
this sickness that has been your most intimate companion
nobody saw you get out of bed
your tense fingers never going back to normal
your glasses being returned to the optician
your towels with your name sewn into them
and the hospice
imagining your voice without the violence
the view from your window
seven years in preparation for death
still hit me, in full swing, like a baseball bat
Croque-Melpomene 