Mellissa Flowerdew-Clarke

When this is over,
we will stand at either end of the garden.
You will look at me,
head tilted,
inquisitive,
wondering if things are the same
between us.

They won’t be.
But we can pretend.
I will open my arms and
stride towards you,
avoiding the dip to the left of the rose bush
that may, or may not, be a sinkhole.

“You can count on one hand
the number of times we’ll be like this again.
Together. “
The weight of your hope makes my arms ache.

When this is over,
I will stand at the end of the garden,
and stare at the spot
where you should be.