i visited your mother today, walking down deptford high street with the wind and the rain. new cross smelt like it was on fire, and i remembered the way you drew your fears in burnt orange crayons.
it’s almost october and the air has turned blue with cold and the leaves are losing their golden edges as they fall to sludge. i met you in autumn on the swings in a park in south east london, you were waiting for your life to end before it had even started.
it’s been over a year since you left, and i’m still surprised.
i’m sorry that i can’t write any more, that i can’t sleep and i can’t even dream, when that’s all you have left. i’m sorry that you were invaded by the mutation that calls in the night and leaves you dying for breath in the daylight. i’m still so sorry that i could’t take away your pain like the moon calls away the tide. i’m full of so many apologies that my throat is swollen and i’m gasping, gasping for something.
i gave up telling stories to sick children when you died. i couldn’t take away the pain and the hurt; but most of all, i couldn’t deal with my failures. i could sing you all to sleep, but i couldn’t make sure you always woke up.
je me souviendrai toujours que vous aimez.