Pink Hotel.

by Ivy Mullins

i see you at the top 
of the pink hotel 
and you are 
almost mine again 
i can almost see my tiny hands 
slip around the base 
of your neck;

it is almost winter, 
but in the summer 
we both took turns drowning
in the reservoir 
you were always the better swimmer 
there were no surprises that you 
resurfaced, 
all bright-eyed and broad-shouldered. 

there were no surprises when 
i sunk to the bottom 
my hair tangled among the sea bed 

i used to think that things 
happened for a reason 
now i know they don’t 
because you are at the top 
of the pink hotel 
and i am only almost. 

Ivy Mullins is a Brisbane-based journalist who started writing poetry as a distraction from her cripplingly monotonous law degree. Her work has been previously published in Concrescence, The Tundish Review, Junkee, PASTEL Magazine, Veronica Lit Mag, and Ibis Zine.