Our walks of late are webbed in silence &
The cold keeps our fingers interlaced.
The sharp edges of falling stars sear the backdrop of an ebony canvass,
Revealing ancient wounds from our pasts,
Which bleed upon us during these walks upon silent streets.

The moon swings over us; a pendulum of the time we hold sacred to us;
For is it not with that you measure your certainty by?

There is an apartment overlooking picturesque homes, with windows fringed with flowers
And weeping willows.

Our walks of late are of sightings of possible homes, with warmly lit rooms.

I dream of rooms
With clusters of cushions and the spill of books and glasses of winter wine standing tall on mahogany tabletops.

I dream
Of husbands and wives reliving those first kisses, those first moments just after the little ones are tucked up in bed and they sigh a sigh of relief.

“I thought when I saw you today…God she is beautiful” the tiniest hint of something unfounded grazed your words and I wanted to bandage up my feelings and keep you at an arms distance because my wound was seeping too.
And bloody words are so cruel.

4 hours later my eyes bloodshot
and imaginary movements have flung objects across each room and smashed everything that was home.
Was home to me and a stop off for you.
My hands are bleeding and my revealed veins are pathways to horror, dripping blood across the floor and wounding myself wasn't intentional but now is irrevocable.

I am but a heap of flesh in a corner.
You will find me if you follow me down that thick muddy garden path.
I will be unrecognisable and you will hardly remember that girl…

God she was beautiful.


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