Gillian Swain 16 - windowsill

My bedroom window was next to the front

door  at the top of the stairs  at the back of the

veranda  do you

remember the morning

you woke me through the glass

you tapping  me a birds nest of hair rising

above a horizon of window sill  and hung over

red eyes hidden somewhere in the mascara smear

You on the other side

laughing  folding over breathless

roaring at the mess of me

We've rolled around in that moment

so many times since -

gratitude is a rude companion

and I know you're not ready

to die.