When Words Won't Do

'C'

 If I wrote you a poem

what would you say?

You’d know how I think,

see things my way

You’ve not changed

just moved onto the next

The same little prat

who initials his texts.

What do you know, really

- about me?

Your psychoanalysis tires

and frustrates me, and your moral highground.

That’s what you do

So fuck you and fuck her too.

The Letter on the Mantelpiece

He used to sit in that chair, every morning
He'd smile at me as I walked in
the room carrying our mugs of coffee
I'd sit opposite him in my dressing gown.
That's how we'd start out day, everyday.

Everyday for thirty five years
he sat in that chair every morning
The chair was empty now and
I sat there
alone.

I looked at his chair and
envisioned his smile, as I
continued to ignore the letter that
sat on the mantelpiece,
alone.

I missed him. His company
and his presence. His smile
and his warmth. His bad
jokes and idle chit-chat.
I missed him.

I finished my coffee and left the room.
Closed the door and locked it
behind me, leaving the letter inside
alone.

My routine had to continue,
my coffee in the morning,
to keep his memory alive,
to carry on...

But now I sat alone.
Just me and the letter
It sat there so smug.
White and formal.

It knew I had to open it,
at some point
and so did I.
I hated it.
It hated me.

I wanted to get rid of it
and it seemed like it wanted to get rid
of the comfort in my denial.
I wanted to get rid of
it!

I walked back to the room
unlocked the door.
I stared at it, it stared back
at me.

It's bold, black print
stamped on the front.
I ripped it apart
and pulled out it's contents.

"We're sorry to hear of your loss"
 It said.
"We can confirm Mr Harvey's account has now been closed.
Yours Sincerely,
Barclay's."