I found a picture of her.
Smiling.
Oh to dance with her again!
With all those teeth,
flashing and full mouthed,
hot whispers under vibrating blankets of noise and life.
The stars, although that shade of cold,
which scared her sometimes,
would guide her into mischief,
clashing her eyes in sapphires and silvers
beside him,
whose heart she keeps tied around her neck,
trailing it over her broad shoulders
in the certainty he would stay there,
forever keeping her warm.
There were no sepia shone snaps of her leaving
toilet cubicles,
eyes misty with threads of rosey haze,
the back of her hand damp,
from mopping away insecurities and cellulite.
Alas I smother her with fondness,
Regaling speels of happiness,
dipping any moments of heartache into a glooped fondue
of nostalgic syrup,
which drips and sets,
brittle and sharp around her heart.
I forget the tremor in her legs
and the relief to shake off the heights and pad barefoot
through streets, markets and underground stations,
Journeying into the dawn,
which was cut by an applause of cackling bird song
rattling her chest with stinging panic.
She’d find her bed at last,
encase and cocoon herself from expectance,
preserved - picture perfect.
The sole of her feet, cracked and bloodied,
scalded and branded
with sooty smears of darkness.
Bio:
Michelle Davey is a writer and radio presenter from East London. She blogs as The Cockney in the Countryside. Michelle is a mother to 3 young children and autism advocate