Remembering how your lips once tasted like liquorice,
Standing in the aisle of the supermarket
Pink-tinted-purple and black sugar’s gone,
All that’s left is aniseed
I find myself at home.
I take off my coat,
And stand in the corner of the living room,
My hand on a rounded corner of a desk, fingers brushing against the grain, into the polish.
The walls are paint-on-paper, paint-on-paper,
Bees stenciled over the top,
Bookcases – and I can hear your voice in my head telling me already that I
Have too many books
Dreaming built this place brick by brick,
Thinking about it when I didn’t have to,
Constructing the creak into the floorboards
Layers and layers of sentiment,
Like layers of liquorice,
Until all that’s left is aniseed.
And I’m standing in the supermarket,
Remembering how your lips once tasted like liquorice