06 edited, again,
Her priorities were all wrong. She had said you were an angel in the haze of the drugs that she was on. So she'd tried to put things in their right place; boxed, enveloped, licked and stamped all the squares and pills left around but they had returned again as curled edges in the fog.
She would have liked to have said, 'I am not lost' and stay home, find her hazy way around the clock until it strikes a poem or a chime.
Transience is nothing to write home about, but this fixed abode was a straight-faced letterbox so she'd posted a poem to herself to arrive on the cold morning after she'd sat up all night - when she'd have watched the dawn light cut the smoke exhaled - and hungry for fresh air, morning sounds and places, would have popped to the cafe for a bleary breakfast and to the park for some sun upon her pasty face, then home to sleep just before the post came round.
She'd forgotten what she'd written and dreaming of the doorbell imagined the little poem sent wouldn't fit because it had grown so. Yet there it was, slipped through the box at rest under the shelf, looking straight at her but addressing someone else.
So she takes an indelible marker and traces last weeks snail mail pencil trail with ease. Next week, as poems are promises, she hopes that they will speak. 'Return to Sender, please' in bold but shaky neat - and she is out, back to the post-box, back to the cafe for a bleary breakfast; and forward, one step after another to the park with the marigold leaves.
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