By: Steph Anne Best
When I was finally ready to unscrew the top of the urn,
And let you fly pillow-cloud style,
Over the white cliffs of Dover,
I was wearing them,
It was a grudge match, for sure,
They weren't intended for grabbing,
But you'd managed to snag the better parts of me,
And hang on for a while,
I thought it'd be nice,
If some of you sneaked inside the lining,
And instead of making a bit to do or wave goodbye,
Stayed,
Momentarily,
With the globs of Briton beach sand,
Still skittishly huddled around your Doc. Martins,
For a chance I believed,
The tiny traces of your cigarette life,
Were putting the squeeze on me,
Unbelievably warm and inviting,
When really my hands were sweating,
Inside 10 oz each of red leather and potentially lethal smoosh,
Who the hell could I give a beat-down, in your absence?
Our disease and disorder had been sparing partners,
Racing at death like tortoise and hare,
The hardest lack motion,
But you will forever float,
My reckless eyelash,
On the atmosphere,
Awaken my skin,
Still human,
To jab and cross,
All future lines,
With a two fisted aim,
Obliterate,
And revive.