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Thursday, 5 November 2015


Stuck in the ruts of your furrowed brow,

I feel responsible for some of your wrinkles,
the laugh lines, the agedness,
the southern-facing corners of your mouth,
the baggy eyes, a-droop as you sat awake
waiting for the whine of the gate hinge.
I was as often not there as you were there,
two ships not even close enough to pass,
two spirits haunting different worlds,
two people once as one as one,
now existing as if all hope is done.

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