The bonny years.

I can still imagine you,
with the help of a few poems that led me astray.
All bones, you'd laugh
inside the cage of your body
and your lips wouldn't move
but I'd rather you cleaned out the grooves in your mouth and allowed something to
engage them, to hurt them, to burden.
There were no arms and no mounds and no blinks that I could provide
to change your disdain
and we stayed in the back of your mother's garden, throwing axes above my head
- in my head.
A flatline,
the peace and the over,
the left and the behind
and I won't disguise I miss that time
but we watched and we learnt and we grew,
separately
and I could never give you what you want and need
and you could never give me enough.