I’m waking up early
but want to keep sleeping,
to stop the sun rising,
to wave away leaving:
to not say goodbye
and feel my heart breaking.

I don’t want to go.
I want to keep thinking
and dreaming of him:
of his ripped denim jeans
and his soft Spanish skin.

I want to hold on to
that feeling of changing,
of flying, of floating,
of soaring and diving.

But I’m not in control
of my life or decisions
so I’m writing this poem
where the start is the ending,
that ends long before
I reach the beginning.

If I’d had more time,
more than less than a minute,
I wonder which moments

I’d choose to remember;
whose arms would I wish
could have held me
when facing a death
that was pointless and graceless?

This mountainous land
is vast and imposing
but there’s nothing poetic,
there’s no special meaning
in taking a breath
that won’t keep me breathing.

My bedroom is just how I left it
except the covers are smooth
and the curtains are open
and there, on the chair,
is a neat pile of washing:
my uniform laid out for school in the morning.

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