If me and Anais Nin were friends

I wish you'd forgotten Sunday
And cracked the glass of
The gilt picture frame
Depicting you; seven, red ribbon
Bruised knees.

Reflecting me, old, dungarees,
Shit taste.

I wish you'd cut your hair so short
That I could feel all the knobbles of your skull
And imagine how your smelled
Whilst we muddled through
Tripping over feigned cool

Clenched fingers at Communist rallies
"Statement" art: glitter glued condoms,
leopard skin and desecrated Manet prints

I don't know what kind of statement we were trying to make.

What Remained

Jack's thick blue shirt
Huddled in the corner
Crumpled under the weight
Of the memories lining its pockets

Your jewellery box
Slurred its words
Gasping over the premise
Of unfulfilled treasure

My photo album, arms folded
Leaning against the dresser
Each yellowing snapshot
Slightly missed the mark

Whilst the memory of the tulips blooms
Its subjects cannot help their decay