A music-video-poetry piece made as a grief catalyst. Footage taken on 14th December 2022, an hour before the passing.
Icy sting on my right wrist leaves the left wrist longing
As I long for Sundays with you once again
Five clocks chiming bim bam tiktaktiktaktik and the smell
Of your wicked apple pie enters the room.
A dried up crocodile watches atop an oak buffet
but can’t shed tears anymore
So what miracle do I have to conjure up
To spend a Sunday with you again.
The floral engraving under my fingers is missing
Blueberry bushes in your garden have gone to sleep
I ate the whole box of sugar cubes hidden behind medicine
And no one has stopped me
There are no blueberries in December
And there are no miracles in December either
The clocks have gone still a while ago
And there I sit with your cat in my lap
Who looks me in the eye with question.
“Where’s that flat ringing of silver hitting silver?”
I put on the radio for distraction
It chatters and complains and gossips
But not like you would
A parody of your ghost
Poor excuse to smell one of books on your nightstand
Next to porcelain with all the bracelets
Each piece a relic of your soul
Sparkling in the sun
Rising again and again