Pulped

A message to you

The post-it note, face up, pink,
rain pulped, bleeding ink.

Barely legible, on paper, 
toxic, oil slick, rainbow spread: ‘Waster’

It seems an epithet thrown,
with poignancy, for you alone.

You swoop it up from watery
cobbles, into your forgetful pocket.

It sits there for three months, 
britalising, before you remember.

And now it is summer. 
And you are almost warmer.

Far from rock bottom, memories 
softened. Have you forgotten?

No, not quite. Merely that the
season brings some light respite.

from the sad images of those 
dark days. Angry, Anxious, Afraid.

Now but a fragile warning 
which crumbles to your touch.