Poetry by Zoë Sîobhan Howarth-Lowe: Waiting for the sun

Waiting for the sun

You walked with me
at three am
the sky grey, and the street
empty
– your hands
cold against mine.

We squeezed through locked gates
and sat on the squat roof
of the crematorium
– we would play
at holding a séance;
our breath rippling the candle flames
as we translated the leaf rustle
into whispers
and poured melted wax over our hands –
sealing our friendship with the marks
left behind.

You stayed with me for hours
squinting our eyes in the darkness
waiting for the morning sun –
wanting to watch as it smudged back the shadows
and added weight back to the outlines of the world.

You stayed with me,
whispering,
waiting for the sun,
but it shuffled in unnoticed
changing the sky from slate grey
to the battleship grey of morning.