Debris that was once my skin,

floats around now as dust in this carriage,

While the sun seeps through the slits,

of woollen curtains,

Specs of me are floating,

in agonising light,

incinerating me,

pushing the pressure behind my eyes,

rolling the pressure down my cheek,

of our journey that I now take alone.

And so I remembered in that room,

Us having that first standstill,

Young and frail eyes locks,

My father’s father,

Letting me touch the spines of your books,

Long enough that the debris of our bodies formed and


I thought perhaps you’d reappear to me

after you passed, 

While I read in the book corner at school

Just as I appeared to you,

Effortlessly leaning on your leg,

Circulating you while you read,

a fly you would not swat away.

And now you envelope my beloved books,

Books I still collect for you,

while my friend’s collected cards.

So I settled on the bookshelves of bookstores that reminded me of you,

Settling on the bookshelves of places I travel without you

While you stay perched on my heart.

Now you float around me, circulating my shoulders,

buzzing in my ears,

tugging at my chest,

Rocking back and forth on this carriage


with me.

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