Before, it was crème pies; mellow peaks for every day and every
day a different flavour, different colour, the same sparkle of sugar and then
We’d whip more cream – yours was always softest – and we’d
joke and sing and mix our different colours until
the last thing I expected – you to mix the crème with
concrete - and to grey the peaks in quiet rage that hardened for weeks until
you suddenly offered me a spoon and we crouched again like comrades,
to scoop the sweet and chew the fat whilst I collected unequal pieces
I’d cry.
And laugh.
And remember.
And then:
We start to whip more crème – though I doubt now whose is
softest - and I joke and sing and plan my different colours until
The last thing I expect – for me to mix the crème with salty
tears – and to flood the peaks in quiet hurt that hardens for weeks until
I can’t forget the dizzying pain of being hit in the face by
concrete.
