Saturday, 17 July 2010

the aftermath

Clock seconds tick
with an ever slowing pace
towards me,
familiar as your boots
over this bare wooden floor.

Cold thick socked toes
missing your warmth
demanding to know,
where you are.

Face covered with
sandpaper stubble, forgotten to shave
left with Homer Simpson muzzle
against which you once would nuzzle
nothing now but sharp corrigated rust.

Left with red eye fall out
since you've gone
crop circle trails
carved out from heavy tears
on salt dried skin.

Fall apart in these dreams
paralysed yet restless
with every lasting gentle
lick against my lips
that taste of you fades.

1 comment:

Vencora said...

oh, how beautiful and perfect. i especially appreciated the lines "crop circle trails
carved out from heavy tears
on salt dried skin."