You were 26 years old,
witty, handsome.
You worked for a fashion brand
behind the Royal Academy,
relished a young man’s London life.

After I heard the news I would lie in bed,
imagine not being able to feel my toes,
or move my legs,
pretend my arms were limp.
Wonder how that felt.

I would think of you every day for months,
wake and imagine being in a body
that didn’t move below the neck.
Think of your parents
thinking of their son.

You would never walk again so they said
a wheelchair for life,
carers 24/7,
a father embarrassed to be
the centre of such pity.

I lived your life but only in my mind.
A fantasy,
imagining myself in another’s story,
as I do from time to time:
a bereaved parent, an orphaned child.

I was jolted back to myself the day you died.
I hadn’t been the one
falling through that void of despair.
I’d only played with lost senses.
you’d lived the minutiae of hours within that leaden body.