That was the sound of the sea sending you to sleep.
That was the day you shared a bag of chips with your friends,
Sucking salt off your fingertips.
That was the great gulps of icy wind.
That was the fabric into which you were sewn.
That was the burn of hot tea on your tongue.
That was the fuzz of radio on winter mornings.
That was the fiddle music drifting down school corridors.
That was years.
A warm shoulder to nestle into.
A hand squeezing yours.
You unpick the threads of self from your geography
And you fray, uncertain.
Tell yourself the stars above
Will always be the same.


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