Poem – My Little Placebo Pill

There is something about holding your own hand –
that desperate attempt
to fill the absence of warmth
that is a little better than your own.
The missing mechanic hands,
large and rough,
around my palm
were my everything –
a breath of fresh air
or the sunshine after the rain.
They were my every cliché.

Yet mine –

A pill only works
if that’s what it is.
A placebo however –
a naïve solution that
momentarily fixes what isn’t.

In the night-time I picture you.
I mould your shoulders
and thick tattooed arms
in the nothingness;
creating you foolishly
under the silent witness of moonlight.
And
it works.
For a second
or two.
The memory is enough,
for just a moment –
that fleeting recollection
of how
our bodies fitted together,
how you smelt
and whispered,
‘I wish I met you sooner.’

And, I  wish you were still here
and wish you never left.
Because
I can’t do all the things you did.
I can’t reach the top shelf
or kiss my own begging lips
or fix a flat tyre.

But I try.

I take the kitchen chair
and climb on top.
I watch YouTube tutorials
and strive to forget you,
chewing frantically,
addictively
on placebo pills.

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