Stick insects and trains.

Dear Peter,

Tomorrow is yours.
An inconvenience store.

I’m in a pub with tears in my eyes,
beer in my stomach,
and pork scratchings in my teeth
(those unconventional communion wafers), and my breath is oh so,
oh so,
OH
so slow.

A moment’s reprieve.

This gut-wrench never seems to subside,
and the creeping changes every time,
but the feeling never wanes -
a seed always survives.

Unknown moments of what you would say
if you could see me now -
would you be shamed,
would you be proud?

I miss you.

Pip.

To the core.



Speak tomorrow.

A seance of “see you once more”
until the next time.