The party had passed the tipping point:
We had ticked the boxes of
laughter
fight
tears
throw up off the balcony
crash in the garden;
And now waited for sleep or sobriety
To take us to comfort.

We sat on the floor,
where there were crushed chips and spilled fizzy drink;
a sticky pink bloodstain shed early in the evening.

We talked quietly
because even though he had collapsed, drunk, on the fraying armchair,
he was asleep: and you had to respect that.

“When I am dead,” she said
“they will say ‘She wasted her time,
scattered it like rice across the kitchen floor’ and they will be
right.”

“When you are dead,” he said, putting an arm around her,
“they will say ‘She shared her time with us,
scattered it like poppy seeds to grow and bloom for us’ and they will
be right.”