I’m waking up early but want to keep sleeping, to stop the sun rising, to wave away leaving: to not say goodbye and feel my heart breaking.
I don’t want to go. I want to keep thinking and dreaming of him: of his ripped denim jeans and his soft Spanish skin.
I want to hold on to that feeling of changing, of flying, of floating, of soaring and diving.
But I’m not in control of my life or decisions so I’m writing this poem where the start is the end, that ends long before I reach the beginning.
If I’d had more time, more than less than a minute, I wonder which moments
I’d choose to remember; whose arms would I wish could have held me when facing a death that was pointless and graceless?
This mountainous land is vast and imposing but there’s nothing poetic, there’s no special meaning in taking a breath that won’t keep me breathing.
My bedroom is just how I left it, though the covers are smooth and the curtains are open and there, on the chair, is a neat pile of washing: my uniform laid out for school in the morning.
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