If only I was tall(er)

waiting for someone who’s lost the key

I wrote to the past; you sent me your love, you sent a thousand roses.

blood seeping from bubble wrap wounds.

You’re not the person I thought you were, knee deep in a swamp of mud. The sludge seeps into your socks, through the holes in the boots you’d believed were infallible. You stare at your feet in dismay; don’t cry, mum says, but you cry anyway. Your boots were new, and your socks were soft, adorned with patterns; you shouldn’t have worn them on such a rainy day.

In December we collided somewhere between Hull and Barnsley; your blue eyes bore into my grey, you were no longer a weaver, but rather a blacksmith. Hammering, again and again, forcing things into places they didn’t belong.

The past sent me a thousand daisies, the future only lavender. [http://aboutflowers.com/flower-a-plant-information-and-photos/meanings-of-flowers.html]

This was not goodbye, Or farewell, or au revoir. This was the beginning of the end.

But when I wrote to the future, all you sent back was half of your heart.