Come and pick up your stuff by Thursday
or I’ll take it to the tip.
The voicemail repeats,
clanks round eardrums
I pull up, golden hour drips through,
glazes your ornaments. Bittersweet.
The white rabbit clock,
five minutes too fast.
I trace my fingers over the curves
of your sofa, green velvet hills
like last summer at the castle in Dover,
when we realised it might be over.
I look at your art for the last time,
shapes and maths, strong and clear.
My abstract dreamscape is
Decaying in a landfill
I collect what’s left of me.
Obnoxious orange and purple bags.
Full of the things you detested;
resting on your polished oak desk.
My wrist threads through the handles.
We could never thread love like that.
The cat, thrown from the cradle,
but she lands feet first.
Demi Lloyd recently gained a Masters degree in Creative Writing at Nottingham Trent University. She is part of a poetry group based in Nottingham called GOBS and is working towards her contribution to their spoken word showcase in March. In her spare time you can find her reading, listening to podcasts or thinking about cats.
Foxglove Journal 