Where can I post
the letters I wrote in the hot
car. Like how brick does
not really have a colour, your eyes
in memory make me confused. I am
sorry I could not articulate
my love for you. I only found it
years later, inside the drawer of a hotel
corridor now I have far shorter hair
and a tobacco tin. Mother, I am so
sorry I could
never come home. The plane heading
for england
ran away to a dark
warehouse. The day is so massive to
me, now. Peter loved a
whore and the whore was
me. Lately, I read Elizabeth Bishop
on the balcony and swat flies off my
skin, coffee stains
sweat on the single bed blinking
inside my blue robe.
.
Blossom Hibbert
Picture Rupert Loydell