poem three: this is not a poem

I expect nothing in return
when I still feel pre-dawn
hours in my chest, still
conjure up the soles of our
feet matching right to left
half asleep, or the sound
of a smile in your voice
when you told me I’d left
pink marks on your pillow
with my wet hair.

I was not sorry for the marks
on your pillow, or the aches
I carried home over England
under the mantra “I do not want to go”.
Somerset views a rolling purgatory
through the windows. Then Bristol
to Yorkshire, a longer journey when you
know things will be hard. What
I am sorry for is how things
are anywhere near as hard as this.

*

No prompt today. These were just words poking me in the ribs from the inside out.

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2 thoughts on “poem three: this is not a poem

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