1999 by Helen Dring
It’s always 1999 again.
Unchecked, I always find my way back there, like the one place on a road sign you know on a street you’ve never seen -
I am always back there, street-dark in the corner, my hands in your pockets, knives in the heels of my shoes.
Something, between here and there is off, like I have never quite left or never quite arrived or something
in between the two.
It could be a blink, a second, a flash in the corner of your eye in the dark but
there is a greyness here,
a shadow, a space between where
she was and where she isn’t.
It’s always 1999, it’s always ticking backwards, like a car that has gone too far and needs to start over like
a road that only leads behind you.
I have started to stop fighting it.
Helen Dring is a PhD student and teacher from Manchester, UK. She writes poetry mostly about old memories and mostly when she should be writing her thesis. She lives with her wife and a menagerie of grey animals. She can be found on Twitter @dringpoems