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After the caring

by Fiona Ritchie Walker

All the bones of the day gone,
bed too empty,
house giddy with flowers.

The team you called
your Midnight Angels
drive, silent, past our door
that I keep forgetting
to call mine.

Weeks fold in on themselves.
Form filling, cancellations,
a gathering of pills
never to be washed down,
clothes held close before they lose
the scent of you.

Final squeeze of your favourite mint
onto my toothbrush,
rinsing my mouth
with the memory of kisses.

A hollow freedom stretches
through the night,
waits for me each morning
and with it your words
find three things to be thankful for.

I make coffee. Start counting.

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