I pour the Prosecco into the glass
of apricot nectar. a fitting tribute to
you, my dumpling, my lobster. my
mind thinks to a non-existent memory
of us dancing in your kitchen to that
Japanese clubbing song you showed
to me. it was the day before Christmas
that I found out about your death. I
ran up and down the stairs, screaming
for you to come back to me. Herman
Hesse rots away on the bedside table.
the drawing you did of me haunts me.
so, here I am, making an apricot cocktail
as a tribute to a man who became my
whole world. and, don’t think that I won’t
go to the Les Deux Magots. and, don’t
think I won’t take a notebook. you were
perfect for me. we both didn’t want kids
and we both loved to read. if you were
a little late in replying to my message,
you would usually be reading Sartre.
nothing can explain how cooking eggs
reminds me of you, or how that advert
for Chanel No. 5 rouses the dragon of
grief. do not underestimate the callousness
of an empty shelled woman for she will
uproot you from comfort and place you
at hell’s door. this may not be the time to
talk about hell, demons, and death, but our
suffering doesn’t stop just because Santa is
coming to town.
Courtenay's Corner 