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.
love this one, thanks Richard