The saddest times I remember
Are sitting on a rickety, paint smattered chair.
In a scrub of tall Spring-green grass.
I wanted to cry but could only try.
I'd just got off the phone.
And in one sentence I realised that people really do die.
Even if they're young and know they'll live for ever.
I don't think it was as sad though as the time I looked through a box of your things.
It was all you'd left.
After clothes and shoes.
And some books.
What was so sad was that your diary looked embarrassed.
It too couldn't fathom you'd died.
What was almost even sadder.
Was your mum saying we had the same colour eyes.
We did.
But yours had a patch of hazel, a speck of brown gold.
I saw those eyes lots.
I remember them full of a weekend high, creased with forgetting laughter; with love, pride, fear and tears.
But nothing was as sad as when.
When your mum looked in at me, asleep in your room.
I was there, it was a couple days after you died, we were trying to see if the pain went.
Nothing was as sad as when your mum pretended I was you.
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