To the girl in golden hoops

With a rather wry smile, I write this to you, assuming (with such epistemic luck,) that you should read it, one day. The poem I wrote another time; about a whole Summer ago, after you had left to somewhere else; and feeling now how I did then, and being in largely similar circumstances, and once more; finding the hoop, well... What else could I do...?


Next to my bed
on a small wooden stand
adjacent to the lamp that I
familiarly use
there lies a crooked,
golden hoop.
It’s not much of worth
in terms of gold,
but it’s yours.
This hoop is all yours.
And it’s there,
always
in the same place
by the lamp I frequent
and my pillow; my head;
your golden hoop,
that lays by my bed.
You told me to discard some things,
they were yours,
a sock
some knickers,
you put them in my bin
and they stay there, still,
just like the hoop,
that you left and I placed,
I put it there,
next to my bed
and it reminds me of you,
as, of course,
it would.
There are slides and pins
for your hair on my ‘sil
I gaze out of the window and see them
they, too, are still
and I’ve left them there
in case you return,
you might need or want them
if you ever come back
and I used to think
I’d have nothing of yours
but there you are
right where I can see
whenever I need a light.