1937

A walk in the park
A topless picnic and
A wink
The back of my hand is scarred by the memory of you

No one belongs here more than you

Your voice is like a stain that won’t come off
Always ringing in my ears
I sit in bed for hours
Thinking of my nylon socks
And ticket stubs
I keep in tiny boxes
So that I won’t forget
How close I came to dying every day –
But didn’t