two hundred and seventy-three breakfasts with you. I still save a space beside me each morning. I fill up the kettle; enough tea for two I’ll make some for you if nobody’s home. it’s useless, I know. you’re fading anyway. I could see you so clearly then warm and blue as the rare sky of childhood a steady hand when the rains heaved through long fingers of light that pressed on my forehead my collarbones the back of my neck my sternum. I told my therapist eventually. he said you were nothing to worry about. I told him I was never worried about you. I don’t think he believed me. when I was walking home after, crying, as I often do you were walking too, or drifting, maybe, gentle and bright and blue. neither of us were really there. the city beat and thrummed around us in absolute silence. it felt like home in a way I hadn’t known I was allowed to feel. the way I imagine the planets feel when they spin away from the light and into the dark and back again.
Natasha Dust is currently a student at the University of Sydney, where she majors in English and Biology. She is an emerging poet who has loved reading and writing poetry since she was very small, and so far has been published in the online journal Not Very Quiet. She is excited for the possibilities the future holds and hopes to publish a collection of her work someday.