Gledhow Wing

The wind beats hard on the Gledhow Wing windows.
The ring on her swollen fingers tracing
the lingering lines of your tears as she smiles.

White sheets. White as a ghost. White.
A silver hairbrush. Clean underwear. Life.

A hen night on the train back to London.
A hole in a living room floor that cannot be fixed.
An altercation by the Thames.
A deleted text.

A memory that can't be wiped but grows more distinct the further away we get.