Scattered

I’m sat outside a cafe,

Inside the rain,

And a lady

A table away

Is wearing the same red raincoat that you wore

Lipstick stains the inner ring of her lips

Bleeding a little as she supps on a frothy coffee,

I can see that it’s the same pinkish magenta

As the only one you would ever wear

I miss you.

That’s what grief boils down to,

On its back burner hob,

Whistling like a baby exhausted with its own wailing,

Only occasionally nowadays,

Missing someone,

So deep in your bones

In your gut,

In all the places you can’t quite point to,

The places you don’t know

How to show

To a doctor,

That you see them

In a red raincoat

In sickly pink lipstick

And it's strange that we seek to let go

When you are there,

A table across from me,

Telling me

I should be wearing a coat

in this kind of weather