You over there
Me over here, in the dark.
Between us the rippling stalks, lit gold.
That space once
jostling with Lego, paint, piles of books,
the din of Simpsons, piano practice,
last-minute homework and salad cream pasta, ‘I
don’t
like this,’ ‘I
do
like that,’
the duvet hillocks, dents in pillows, rush for the bathroom, thundering
feet on stairs, ‘My turn in the front’ ‘Where the hell’s my shoes/ print-off/ hair-tie. Dreams and dramas, weirdo
boyfriends, cartilage piercings, high, high heels,
and lines and lines of washing, and oh,
so many socks.
Our history
of scratched furniture, keeping track of lives so
full that
Time
burst.

No jostling now in
this darkness between us,
but space to catch the scent of
pillow dents and old scratched wood.
amongst the still stalks,
lit gold.
Me over here

You over there.