I was walking on a river
When I heard the sounds of my book
My eyes bled into its pages
Finding solace in the organization of letter next to
Letter I wrote to my mother
Three years ago but still haven’t mailed it
The right corner has a stamp
The left a cocktail umbrella
Its raining and useless
I am not that small.

Remember after all that we are erasable
Pencil drawings and oil pastels
Hung up on the wall with blue tack
Next to the photo of when we rode our bikes
Over the moon and back again

I hold a secret of vast proportions
Much like out family friend Bill
and the way I feel when I eat too much.

I am not concerned with beige carpeting
Or white walls of my drinking glass
Only comfortable socks and Christmas lights.
And getting to know my mother better.