Hidden memories

Between the kitchen, the hall and your bedroom,
are all of the moments we missed since childhood.
Holding our breaths and quietly filtering the air,
for pieces of conversation half real or imagined.
You keep eyeing my awkward body waiting for my limbs

to wade through this passage of hidden memories.
Until my arms are symphony flowers crawling under
the gap of your doorway, screaming here I am.
They hand you light and de-pollute your bedroom,

my body, a shadow against the musky yellow air
and eighties wallpaper, sticking the scent of you
throughout this house. His mother’s prayers are
trapped within the bricks and where marbled light
shone from a wine glass there is space for his reflection.