It feels heavy remembering
the onion bhaji I ate for breakfast
that day,
the crunch I lost from microwaving it
and the oil that stuck to my fingers
afterwards.
It feels heavy remembering
my hands in my driving lesson,
taking the car fast around the bends,
pushing the tires over the curbs
followed by the slam
of my foot on the stop pedal.
It feels heavy to remember
craving the heat from my duvet covers
at midday –
how I wanted to suck the humidity
into my skin, and hold it there.
It feels heavy to remember
carrying bottles in a bag to a bin
because the bottles smashed
and branches clawed at my arms
and salt collected in my eyes
and hands pulled me up but
I liked the solidity of the ground.
It is heavy remembering
songs and lyrics like
down another lonely road I go
and the rectangular room
that shook from the music
as I sat in the centre
with pages and pages of ripped paper
in my hands.