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.