The thought lost in the eyes of a unicorn
Appears again in a dog’s laugh.
Been cursed with the ability to see you in everything: litter, trees, book spines, stamps, tickets, postcards, quartets, umbrellas, phones, statues, lingerie, waiting room magazines.
Been cursed with the ability to smell you in: the dampness of rain, florists, dad’s lavender patch, pub toilet soap, old pillows, salt water, seaweed, humidity, boiled rice.
Been cursed with the ability to feel you in anything from sheets to peaches, velour to fur, water balloons to dewy grass.
I have lost your taste but your voice still echoes on walks home alone.
Reminds me that things aren’t things. Things are vehicles; vehicles for memories that have nothing to do with the things that are driving them. It’s no longer a blessing, it’s a curse.
