A Single, Short Story

Adjectives are my favourite

Type of word because they’re

All so different. Each one tells

A totally different story. A

Wide smile spread on her lips

Paints a hell of a different

Picture to a painful smile spread

On her lips. They even feel

Different, parting from the

Tip of your tongue and rolling

Around in your ears, each

With their own colour and

Shape and texture and their

Own single-worded stories

Bursting or popping or hissing

Or crawling out of them,

Ticking parts of your brain

Here and there as if they

Were alive. They’re how I

Remember you. I relive the

Time you left every day inside

My head, each little fucking

Adjective reminding me what

Loss sounds like. They all tell

Their own stories one-worded

Stories to me, sometimes soft,

Other times real: lucky.

Contented. Warm. Safe?

Buried.

Broken.

Haunted.

Alone.