Tom

Feels like words often fail to catch people

We get lost in the moment and forget and only remember when nobody can hear

It’s cold

Death

Not comfort

Nor a paradise

Nobody but we have the right

To denounce

or valuate

Our lives. However much is left

We leave behind

‘It’s too fucking brief’

They say you had your time but

Who’s counting?

And what is left when we are gone?

Thomas….

It’s not faulty stitches you can unpick- who gets to say you weren’t perfect

In your own little universe?

Just because your frame sits crookedly in your chair

Smile half-cocked and eyes that rattled

Laugh that rolled easily;

Like beads in a pinball machine

There were always games going on inside you

With a banging giggle

You invited us to share. Readily

And laugh you did

There was so little time to prepare

In my eyes I saw your sweet, sleepy smile

Naughty hand- the one which held all the mischief raised

As sleep became you

A few days later only to feel the cool glass phone screen on my cheek

I heard you were gone

Little comfort for us as your fate flies undetermined

I think you’ll come back. Perhaps you have already

Sometimes like a whisper you’ll come to mind

I guess your stay with us would be coming to an end

I crossed your name out neatly in the diary

It’s still written but the line reminds us

Of what has already been done

As you floated away

Your only fight in the final few hours

They told me there were yellow balloons flying at your funeral

Perhaps one was you?