For a while there, the shapeless mass of your absence stole
more of the bedsheets than you ever did.
The weight of your absence blockaded
the breeze through the kitchen window
and the smell of your absence—
the smell of your absence festered like
burnt coffee or the dampness of wet towels
draped over the radiator.
You came to me at my hour of need,
delivered yourself like a bouquet
into this corner of southwest London
before the letterbox was locked.
We thought we might wither and fade or
burst from the windows like weeds and wild nettles,
but cooped up in this cramped apartment
we learnt to live like Van Gogh’s sunflowers;
too gorged, too saturated with life
to sustain their own weight
or even dare trying.