Some days I can’t swim, Ida
Is that you flailing?
The first time I went to her house without her in it I cried for an hour
Feeling like her, I suppose, when love is met with a blank space
Not blank though, was it? The armrests were greasy, except for the chair she died in
Different fabric maybe.
I’d like to have held her hand, as she so often did mine, and guided her to you
She was taught to forget you
But she remembered you to me, secretly, and although it took me more than ten years to understand, I called you onto the screen, straightbacked
Before turning back to her
My ears have always been my keenest sense and that’s you, isn’t it, switching on inside me to listen?
I can remember tone of voice long after I’ve forgotten the words
I dream in music sometimes, but I never play
I wish I’d confessed