Stretching up to look for a salad bowl, I’ve found that you’re a stranger. Fifty-one red boxes of what killed you bring you back instantly six months later. Your lovely smile. Why hide them? And why there? I’ve no idea, the blind geography of long-term lovers. All I have left of you is love and questions. And, briefly, rage. I take them down, tile after cardboard tile. All empty. Why not throw them out? Why stash all this empty air for me to tumble in? And yet, another outraged part of me is grateful, warmed. They give you back — an intimate, secret you I knew I knew but didn’t. That private you that couldn’t make decisions. Now, bereft and strangely calm I catch the red-stained packets in a bin, I click the door-lock, step onto the terrace. I flick your lighter and there I burn these inoffensive, murderous cartons, I burn them one by one, I burn them like cigarettes, chain-smoking emptiness.