The colour of absence

is infiltrating all that I own:

stitched into every item of clothing,

tattooed across my every thought,

every floorboard is stained 

and creaking your name.

Even the sky is beginning to lament.

The Autumn leaves are falling to the ground

just to be closer to your feet,

scratching your words into the gravel,

whispering, 

'I wish you were here.'

Oh, how I wish you were here.

Trapped.

There are no barbed wire fences here,

no pepper spray,

watch towers

or gun-carrying guards

but it is still a jail cell

and we are all still prisoners.

I have been digging my way out

for decades.

A poem about dirt.

The kind that stains

hands,

Mother's carpets

and children's noses,

hoping it will one day 

bloom roses in their cheekbones

daisies in their elbows

and forget-me-nots

in that white rug footprint

that got them grounded for a month.

When there's trouble you call DW.

Cause the girls went la la lala

and the boys went nyeh nyeh nyeh-nyeh 

and they blamed them for it

without realising they relied on them for it.

Darkwing Dubs (in human form known as Scotty)

killin' it.

Your breath is a stroke I never learnt to swim.

The weight of your words

is a burden too heavy for my heart to carry.

There's a depth in your voice

that I am not brave enough to dive into.

I am already drowning.