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

the spices of your perfume

have lost their musky tang,

your paintings of the crescent moon

collect dust as they hang.

the green of your eyes

have faded all to gray,

your tulips that danced in the wind

droop, wilting away.

time slipped too quickly for me to hate

how you hummed tunelessly while making coffee,

steam curls off your untouched cup heading straight

for the corners, where your laughter lingers softly

but i hate how we never argued

over shopping lists and ignored dishes,

and marmalade jars and spilt hot glue -

my illegible scrawl and your chips with ridges

no more lipstick prints on little notes

or red polish on the carpet

no more exchanges of corny quotes

or waltzes under a sky, moonlit.

no more groaning at unamusing puns

or mixing up sugar and salt

no more straggly, magical, messy buns

or bringing traffic to a halt.

but lavender bunches still hang in your closet,

and your grandfather clock still chimes without warning,

your hairbrush is still parallel to your wallet,

a cup awaits you still every morning.

a ring, redundant, still weighing down my pocket,

the hotel room, still reserved in my name,

while a dome, inscribed with yours, still bears a blanket,

of flowers, for your heavenly bouquet.