i think about
the three times you left me.
you
stay beneath
my skin like a cystic growth.
i remember you
being
between the lines,
fondly and then
not
so fondly,
and it leaves me like an empty house.
i like it
better, this way.
foreign,
and grown, with falling down
edges
and criss-crossed lines, faded
dresses
and albatross.
No comments:
Post a Comment