THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

You pray to your phone to connect,

for one last call to a person who left

this world an year ago.

You wish for a "last time", "last words"

leaving their mouth.

If only letting go was as easy as

blowing a dandelion.

I wish for a speed post service

to be available to the stars,

where mother says the dead live.

You wish for a last train to exist,

to take you to the exact star you wanted to reach.

You turn the pages of your novel,

your glasses carrying a tint of hope

to find a theory to revive all the stars that stopped shining.

They say you need eight or twelve hugs a day,

while you barely manage to have a half

and your spine aches.

Death wants you so much,

yet you toughen your fingers

to write a goodbye that stood half,

with a heart whose

three out of four parts are full,

you pinch your skin at the end,

to snap your mind out of loss,

a loss whose eight parts felt missing.

You convince your arteries to not bleed,

to believe that universe hears all,

hoping for a movement inside photographs.

Loss is an empty well

that keeps you searching

for a barrier between our world and theirs.

Loss, makes you homeless

Loss, makes you a begger craving for life,

whose heart doesn't pump enough blood

to fill the empty spaces.

If there's an ocean deeper than the Pacific,

it's Loss.

Five telephones at home and none to make a conversation with the one who's gone.

Twenty something envelopes

and no letter to wrap inside.

How to reach the reciever's address ?

A hand to harm yourself, and no one to hold it.

A brain to think,

but your heart's a coping mechanism for searching all ways out.

Words to write, but no one to send to.

Am I still waiting for the last train?