There floats a cloud beneath my feet
I’m hugged by an old grey parka
hood up
that packs in heat. My palms sweat,
it’s numbingly wet and
icy outside, but you
walk towards me anyway.
Any day this will end, I say.
I’m allergic to your aftershave.
The pianist in my head
hammers away
violins play while you chuckle
I’d like to scream.
My eyes overflow
with the emotion that drinking too much Old Monk brings.
Lost in a maze of acceptance,
These things won’t end, you say.
It rains all the time
in the place I flew away to.
Yesterday, I locked up our pictures,
our books.
I don’t wear the necklace
it looks beautiful kept aside
in the red suitcase you helped me
carry out my door
on the 30th of July.
You swore.
We won’t be broken apart.
April.
I’m afraid I made
many promises at the start
that I cannot seem to keep.
3:17 a.m.
I only wonder how you sleep.