in my dreams i see you sometimes
i am next to you and your eyes
are not sad
they just smile the way i saw them smiling
only a few times

when i look in the mirror
i hear your voice saying there was beauty in my
smile and in my big blue eyes
i was a little girl then
and many years have gone
and you have gone with them
but
i still remember your hugs
though it feels like decades since i was last in your arms
and your voice still echoes in my brain
i remember the last time we spoke you told me
to not cry,
to be strong
and i am trying to be.
i am.

i pretend that i am.

i see you in my dreams sometimes
and i am again a 6 years old little girl
running to you
when you open the front door
and waking up realising
i will see your face no more
it's the most painful story
and i cry sometimes
but you are not here
to open any door
and i am not 6 years old any more
and there's no beauty
in  my big blue crying eyes.

you left and took away your voice,
your dancing,
your bright face
your warm arms
and your kind eyes,
i am left only with a picture
i keep inside a box
behind the front door of my heart
and i want to go back,
to be your little girl again
and i know i'll never get to tell you
that I don't want to pretend any more
and I want you to tell me
that it's okay if i am not always strong
that it's okay to cry.

in many lines i have tried to write you
but i always do it the wrong way
and it seems impossible to describe
how much i miss you
and i need you
and
how much
i love you.

the invisible weight
of blind transition
climbs my back
sits upon my shoulders
laughter goes silent
colors once vibrant
turn black and grey
I move in slow motion
every thought enslaved
every dream a nightmare
my monster has returned

This could be going to a poetry night,
run by the Chelsea fringe;
listening to a night of poetry
on gardening.
I hear of Oxeye daisies languishing on prosaic lawns
or Dogwood as beacons in the winter light.
Of course we have a ****** baked pizza
and some angel making apricots and custard for her favourite charity,
ensuring the rescue of recluse poets
along the cobbled way.

i've written sixty eight poems
on adderall in an hour and all of them
are living up and getting married
having kids and taking three week
vacations in the carribean
living fulfilled lives under no control

healthy, fruit dripping naturally
even when things go wrong
they sleep soundly.
i am distracted by how perfect they are
and admire them with jealousy
when i should be asleep

i am not
my favorite poet
not even third or
fourth in line for the title

the hawk circles
laughing
at such a notion

and i bury my toes
in the dirt
waiting for the mockingbird
to chime in