A poem by Rosie Etheridge
Flat 2,
the rotting wood door
Daisies on the bed sheets
Set an oasis forevermore
Piles of gig tickets
Hours long queues
For a hazed glimpse of you
Outside, pale blossom falls
On loves accepting their curtain call
In Flat 2
pancakes still burn
Because kisses took priority
Roses still bloom
Months after you gave them to me
I wear your jacket
Over my silver dresses
Hard working hands make soft caresses
I hope we never close the door
On Flat 2
Haunt the creaking floor
Watch the spring flowers wilt
Gradually lose this gold
In the world of silt
Climb the winding stairs
To a home no longer there
So,
Aching, I hand you the keys
You make Flat 2 everywhere.
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