Five years of you was all I got.
It flashed by in a blur of Scarborough sand between our toes from the weekends spent hunting sea monsters in rockpools; stray specks of glitter from your mother’s craft cupboard and the poster paint handprints we gleefully left on each other’s faces; the dirt beneath our fingernails from our expeditions through the Amazon rainforest in my back garden.
Then suddenly, I was clean again.
You became a bleach-white outline only visible between hospital sheets, and I felt you being scrubbed from my skin as I watched them return you to the earth.
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