By Louis Brierley
from my little window
I watch him leave at five-thirty and arrive at ten-thirty
and I give him my best smile
he turns away
and runs inside
and locks all doors and windows firmly
I sigh and know he is safe
but if problems arise
I have my own keys
*
now
he is peering out through a crack in the curtain and
I know he has found my gift:
the photo I placed on his pillow
*
the next day
I find it in the
rubbish
the rain is ill yellow but
my tears are clear
*
so
that night
between five-thirty and ten-thirty
I walk through rain in my best blue shirt
and unlock his door
but it is bolted
from the inside
I scream into the rain and
strike the flags with
my hatchet
a stone chip cuts the corner of my eye
and I weep crimson
into the rain
whispering I Love You.
*
from my little window
I watch his yard at ten-thirty
but he is not back
and at eleven-thirty
he is not back
the blood has caked on my cheek
and I am having trouble seeing
so perhaps he has already returned
*
I go out again
I am a good neighbour
I am concerned
but as I approach his door
I hear laughing
*
he is with a Girl
not the mother, nor the sister
I know
I have photos of them
but a new Girl
and she is making him
laugh
*
they see me
they stop laughing
and I
with tears on one cheek and
crimson streaming down the other
my hatchet in my hand
say I Love You.
**
Louis Brierley is a young writer of speculative fiction. He is in his first year of English and Creative Writing at MMU. He is also currently approaching publishers with his novel, ‘Flames of Peace’
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