Citrus & Bergamot

I am fixed, before the door, soft yellow,

your love of buttercups

the bright rage of summer to combat the dark and cold

The colour has faded, chipped along the edge

how you stood there determined,

paint on your nose, 

more on you than on the door

When in we moved, first,

you were indeed proud

No longer shiny,

the brass knob is worn,

a thousand times it turned 

I hold it like the first, 

You were anxious

we wouldn’t get it right

Only last week the reminder

the door creaks, oil the hinges

I step into the hall,

Afraid to breathe,

But giving in, need burning

I inhale, burning

Citrus and bergamot

And to my knees, and on my knees, and lying

Heaving, gasping,

undercoming,

comforting

Two paper cranes, 

Dance, the shadows of their former selves

a mobile you placed for the day that I should ask

if we called this home

It is as though

I can still hear your voice in the kitchen

And see you in the garden raging bright,

speaking with birds

The flayer of the page and like the blade sliding astride my warmth

I taste you in the time lapse, the missive from the dark and cold

The smell of you like pigment, permeates all,

a thousand times you turn