that thing in books

I wish my bangle hadn’t smashed.
I wish my blue Goretex hadn’t pulled it off my hand
onto the wooden floors of our shared home,
high beside the Chestnut.
It was the colour of milk-sky and shells. It was rippled
like the skin between an upper arm and pectoral.
It was the right weight for me.
And we kept its pieces on the window sill
for months. Or until we had to give up the place
and take a long flight, together and silent.
Our wan transit-skin throwing garish colour
from the inflight screens.
I lost you in the queues for immigration.
A smaller figure you became, heading out
to all those far-away smiles and baggage.

I wore it everyday and would wear it still.
Should I say this? That I would wear it still.
We used pieces of it, fine shards that made
a porcelain sound, to prop up something.
I reckon old age will be a time
for understanding
carelessness, the finite and
that times are sometimes times.
What time is it where you are now?
(Here it’s exactly 13.30)
and my face does that thing they describe in books.