Ivy

Grass scrapes my legs, I see my scars and I remember.

I remember falling from the last tree that shed its leaves in winter.

I remember you taking off your shoes by the side of the road, they lay there mimicking the last steps you took.

I clung to you like ivy on terracotta bricks, maybe I shouldn’t have, maybe I should have known better.

It’s now winter but I still remember the exact shade of the flowers you planted years ago in our garden, every petal that knew you has now withered.

But I have forgotten which bench was your favourite to sit on.

Was it the one by the fountain in which we used to play as kids?

Or the one where you dropped your coffee, staining the oak wood and my cardigan?

A cardigan I still have but I don’t wear anymore, partially because of the stain, but also because it reminds me of you.

And you are the only thing I will never be able to forget, a thing, I say, because you are nothing but a memory now.

Not even time will set me free.