Travel Shorts

Risky

Said you'd marry me at thirty;
we were only twenty-one and it seemed
that time would never come.
Then we lost Matt
to (sui)cider.
Watched as seagulls
dive-bombed his ashes;
apple shaped and milky in the tired sea.
Now you come to the pub
in your dressing-gown;
all drawling sentences and hands full of
nicotine scars
and I hate that you keep the worst part
of his memory alive.