I hate myself for doing this, walking to the corner of the street where she lived, standing in line for a film I have no intention of watching.

People say, “How is…,“ then they stop and change the subject.

Her sock turns up unexpectedly in the wash. Her eyelash curler appears in my wash bag.

Raincoat on (hers), I walk all the way to the bus shelter where she first touched me properly.

Now my hair is wet, and I simply can't bear any of it anymore.

Home now windows all dark.

And there on my doorstep, a glow-worm.