like a single rose in a glass
on a windowsill
wilting
each petal falls unnoticed
a once warm mug of tea
left to go coldand develop a skin on top
like the least favourite pack of crisps
in the multipack
i am all thats left
and i am the only flavour of my kind
like your old nokia 3310
left in the drawer
in the wake of a new era
designed to help us all grieve
together
in public
like your kitchen table
endlessly round and probably clean now
empty without you
fag in hand
grieving
at the top of your voice
like the last weekday northern line
moving endlessly, empty
like me
who travels
from clapham north to london bridge, empty
beer in hand
grieving
endlessly
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