instead of allowing myself to be happy I keep trying
to find you exploring the tight curves of bell peppers,
your laugh echoing within the crunch of sourdoughs,
a smile lingering as the sharpness of sheep’s cheese,
hiding melancholia inside green olives’ salty brines,
ghosts tucked so tightly in the shadows of fig leaves,
hesitantly pacing between the honeys and the jams,
lavender bunches chosen to mask a grey loneliness.
I used to love you on Saturday mornings – now I go
to the farmers’ market and pretend you’re still around.
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