I’m not really sure how to feel:
this news, coming so late to my door.
It’s been eight years since they found you,
eight years, and soon to be one more.
We’d take trips to the cinema,
with that bottle you’d treat as a friend.
A cocktail without a dress,
always a means to an end.
Jumping over the wall
to pick flowers from a neighbour’s garden.
Entangled in the juniper bush,
I left you shamelessly, without a pardon.
Looking at your picture now,
it begins to slur and slew.
A single frame turns into a movie of us,
drinking to forget what we knew.
I brushed past the juniper bush
on that road just after the bend,
in a cocktail without a dress
sadly, Juniper’s end.