Saturday, 4 December 2010


Saturday 4th December 2010, A. Palmer

You were so beautiful,
it was offensive of me to expect any longer than I got.

Still, when I look around, I drown in what ifs
as I find bits of you everywhere.
That blush lipstick in my car,
the stain from spilt tea in March still not scrubbed.
That’s staying unwashed now.

Yes, I’ve left the room like a mother
does after a son has died-
your painting still hangs from the wall
we made love against.
And your old t-shirt lies lifeless where you left it.

Remember our handprints in mascara on my mirror?
I never did get you another tube.
They’re fading now, like the details of your face
and the exact key of your laugh, so dirty
like our thoughts and sheets.

Now and then, I like to be reminded of the hurt,
so I venture in there.
I pick up Lawrence, unfinished like us and blind like me.
I refuse to cry, then I leave
wishing I hadn’t entered,
before wishing I hadn’t ever met you.

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