I tasted you in a glass of rosé wine. Cold, pink and crisp. Cheaper than Beaujolais, and less likely to stain. I felt you dribble down the back of my throat, just like you used to. I liked it. I liked you. I cut my toe on one of your thoughts, sharp, glassy, covered in dirt, lying on the bark in a children’s playground. But it wasn’t you. You’d have told me to put my shoes on. I miss the way your hopes shredded the sides of my mouth when I bit down on them. Colourful and jagged and brittle. I made a mosaic from them and put it in my fridge, next to the apple pie. That’s you too. I wish I could cover you in custard again. You were everything else and nothing at all, my drop of almond milk, little blue bluebird, box of soap, mustard spoon. I hope I see you soon.