you changed your cosmic address
so I can’t reply to your email
or come round for a chat,
can’t walk past the window
past the protesting posters,
catch a brief glimpse of you being yourself,
won’t receive any new poem cards to hungrily devour in seconds, grinning with the brilliance and yes, dying is annoying but
I can still read and
inspiration’s a permanent lodger with the ever-same postcode
squatting rebelliously in your poemthoughts for whoever seeks a spark –
your words will do this for generations of blue whales,
the ultimate magic trick no one can guess,
forever alive to explain, express,
always present to inspire, possess.
I’ll send this now then, to your cosmic forwarding address.