she sits there

wearing his clothes.
so tired she’s rather foolish not to sleep.
but they smell of such comforts.
sometimes she’s certain.
that scent makes her drunk.
she’s got art on the mind.
and nowhere to paint.
the imagined canvas.
foresees colours and curves.
that remind her of.


how odd.
you, replacing her.
Saturday, she swears.
she saw a soul.
almost slide.
down the darkened.


how odd that she.
caught & brought it back.
and all she thought.
to do when done.
was call you.

the scales.
are tipping.
how odd.


1 comment
  1. globetrotteri said:

    This one strikes a chord deep within me. Well done!

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