Chinese Food

Six. A poem about love and grief. Written by me.

My Babcia loved watching darts,
She was my Sun.
When she died.
I would feel her peak out of the trees,
through gaps between the branches
and with Bullseye precision
beam down on my sad lil face.
This is different.
It’s not like when I tell myself I will work out tomorrow,
it’s just one more doughnut.
Or it’s definitely true love, he’s just not honest with his heart yet.
It’s not that kind of a lie.
I daren’t even toy with the idea that you might still be here.
Just on holiday somewhere or in the garden.
There is no joy in this kinda play.
It is what it is.
She’s dead, She’s dead, She’s dead.
Clear cut. Dead end. No chance. Not even a smidge.
You said. If She is the Sun
Then I will be the Moon.
And here I am on Planet Earth,
Head no longer in the clouds.
The void in my bones tethers me to the ground.
But my feet dance again now.
I am happy. I laugh,
I love and share and allow.
The price is a little bitter sweetness
as I can’t tell you about it.
But it’s sooo much better then it was before
Lately my days have been filled with magic & joy
Something in the air. Finally
and yet I wake up screaming.
Guilty. And then annoyed.
She would never want that.
Well she’s dead she’s dead she’s dead.
Tether me to the ground.
In tears, I’ll plod into a shop
and a woman will say.
Hey I have these for you.
And will hand me a bouquet of flowers.
I’ll sit in a room feeling overwhelmed.
What to do. What would you do?
Go out in the open air.
And as I turn a corner
A mother will walk past with a t shirt that
says “Love yourself”
I pack up my things and head to Europe on
a whim.
I’ll head to your land because I should
I’m not expecting much.
But then every light turns green.
Every beauty treatment is the best one I’ve
ever had.
Every dress I try on is my favourite and in
the sale.
A handbag I just had to have, had my name, spelt correctly, sewed on the inside.
Every plate of food tastes like it was tailor made for my tongue.
Every overheard conversation calms my nervous system.
I could listen to the locals talk for hours.
I don’t need to understand.
I would recognise it anywhere.
The language,
like the melody of my favourite song.
And I realise how much I love being home.
It’s all a coincidence.
Critics will say.
And they are probably right.
But then I fall asleep
In a strangers apartment
On the 4th floor of an old pre war estate.
A cheap one but its central and it has air con.
And as I’m sleeping on my side.
With my beautiful cool doggy outstretched
on the floor.
I awaken calmly.
And right in my eyeline.
Without needing to lift my head
A full, fertile and majestic moon.
Beaming at me.
And my sad lil face is overwhelmed with joy.
If maybe, for a moment
I could be naive.
How wonderful would that be?
To untether myself and consider.
Albeit briefly.
Because this love is so loud in the tiny gestures.
And that’s got your name written all over it.
If maybe the signs, from strangers,
from places
from animals
and from things
were a letter from you
Would that be okay?
I hope so.
Because. If it is.
I love you and miss you too.

Hit me up babe

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