General Trouble (For Samantha Bartle)

Poem By Chloe Meakin

I’ll be wearing
your little photograph. I’ll be wearing your tattoo.
Watching your little Polaroid develop.
Your eyes the colour of a miserable storm.

I’ll be remembering our little memory.
And yes I know what this means.

I’ll be wearing your ring.
The middle one of three diamonds
and a stone the colour of a small divorce.

I’ll miss you, little sickness.
I’ll have ulcers on my tongue.
I’ll be wiping with a little tissue.
My eyes the colour of a sad disease.

I’ll be your little vitamin,
dissolving quietly in your cheek.

I’ll be dissolving between your tongue and your teeth.
The middle one of three words,
and a thought the colour of the concrete floor.

I’ll be a little better, sometimes
I’ll have a little smile.
Eyes the colour of a brand new moon.

I’ll have my little fingers, pressed
smiling with my fingers kissed against my lips.

I’ll be having this thought of you.
The middle one of three fingers
with your eyes the colour of a full day’s rain.

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