200.salute
There’s a Russian word
for the nostalgia
of gone love. A noun.
Razbliuto. It has the bite
of a Corona taken easy or mouths
scarfed in the throat of the wind,
but it doesn’t taste of us. Our one-bed
basement flat where vinyl spun
and miso darkened Paris mugs. How
we rarely slept. The radiator’s click
was long grass, rusting all the browns
of the heath but the only bleeding
you did was post-shave. Nights,
we watched shoe soles trip-trapping
over our bridge, imagined the tread
of rubber on our lips. You taught me
how to skin up and when to inhale,
how a lick sours when it dawdles
ribcage to neck. Funny, how I’ve lost
my grip on you, certain sounds slipping.
The bum note in your cough. I never
got my length in that bed. I still think
about your fingers: concertina nails,
chewed to the quick.
Rachael Smart has a thing about words. She has an MA in Creative Writing from The University of Nottingham. Her work has been published online, in print and placed in writing competitions. She writes best when her pencil loses its point.
Note: 200.salute is a discontinued Rimmel lipstick