Brooke Forbes

Guest Post by Tallas Lynch

I almost didn’t notice you there,
sunken in the linen.
A greying afternoon
with humid laughter
seeping through the window.
I ask if we should join them for a beer.
in a bruised whisper, you say
you’ll think on it.
The Sunday ritual:
blinds blacklisting sunsets,
wrinkling pillowcases,
rusting eyelids,
half-sipped teas scattered like
unfinished poems,
stories floating until cold.
This room is both your tomb and temple.
We remember Mum’s bottle,
lonely in the kitchen,
the curtain splitting as we grin
through smoke and Syrah.