I’ve been writing again. Or rather, editing something I submitted for my creative writing module last term:
Barefoot in the summer
we danced fairy circles into the grass,
wearing oversized “you’ll-grow-into-them” t-shirts
and freckled skin.
We filled a rainbow of water balloons
at your garden tap, silver ribbons
weaving around our wrists
and pooling in the dents of our elbows.
Now you dye your hair packet purple.
You wear short dresses and patterned tights,
and sometimes I don’t even recognise you
behind your daytime face.
But I still have that mix tape you made me,
and your once-favourite poem
is inscribed on the inside of my skull
in indelible ink.