two solid panes,
but still, I can see you
i can look, but not touch
as you retreat from me
your shadow stretches as time passes
but still, all I can see is your empty back
you don't move,
and all I can see of you
is that last glance at you, remembering what you once were
this is like such a long evening
the sun never quite setting
nothing ending
nothing closing
all I want is for you to turn back and properly close that door
and not let that crack of light come through, as you do
so all I can do is think of you
and you win
you fucking win
you bitch, you whore, you selfish creature-
when you left you deprived me of a mother
of anything other than thoughts of you
of questions
of the bittersweet linger of false hope
and the tears when you didn't turn up, after all
but maybe it's not your fault, it's mine
because I still have those glass panes before my eyes.
Winter 2017
YOU ARE READING
Unbroken • Poetry
Poetryeven the leaves will not break beneath her touch "All art is quite useless." - Oscar Wilde
