Liquorice

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,

Pink-tinted purple,

Black-and-blue sugar,

Until all that’s left is aniseed.

And I’m standing in the supermarket,

Remembering how your lips once tasted like liquorice

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