Creme pies

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.