Everything inside

In my head is everything I’ve ever owned.  And nothing.

I can touch the fur of loved, long-disintegrated bears,

Hear the rattle of a nut, stuck in a money-box that was really a plastic bottle.

My imaginary hands can stroke the dog I loved and will miss forever.

In my head is everything I’ve ever known.  And nothing.

All the words of all the books through all the hours,

Pictures that made me want to be an artist, or a princess.  Or Odysseus.

I can sing the songs that lulled me into sleep.

In my head is everyone I’ve ever known.  And no-one.

Here, my brother tells me how to tie my laces. 

He seems so grown-up but now I know he’s not.  He’s just a boy.

My friends come over for my birthday, bringing chocolates.

I realise that all along there really was no-one.  Just me.

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