If my grief has lost it’s bite,

what will I write about? Will my words

have guts and grit, will they make you cry? 

I got the colour palette mixed up, 

the hues lost in words I never

wanted to have to say. I never did find

the knives that were pulled out 

of my stomach. When you lied.

Wishing is all I do and I do it well. 

I am not poet enough to make you feel 

the joy of being and belonging,

to make you taste the salt-sea flavour

of friendship that has endured 

over years. Nor can I make you see 

the moonlight as it curves 

into branches as I speak. 

There will always be others,

they will also go where lovers go

when they are gone, deep into shadows 

of the past: What if I never write again? 

What if this is my very last poem? 

What, if my loss never returns 

and I turn away? What then, 

would you lie to me again?