Twenty Two Sixteen

It's twenty two sixteen

and the windows are thrown open.

The world has turned black

and all the secret niceness is hiding.

The wind just blew – it rattled the loose window frame

and it sounded like the train passing on the line to Manningtree.

No, it sounded like someone gasping as if they had just been

taken from their bed to the end of the earth as I have just been.

A cover of "Unsteady" is playing

and I have found a secret bit in the world,

but the wind is blowing so hard in my face

I can’t breathe

and the song is bringing back cuts and scrapes of memories and I can still hear the plane from Heathrow going over my house.

It's twenty two twenty one and my eyes are itching

the way they always do

after

I

cry.

My fingers are cold, but my toes are so cold

they’re burning now that I've shoved them under the duvet.

It's twenty two twenty two and I still feel it. It still hurts. I’m still sad.