Every door felt like an undeserved opinion,
I told you I was scared for a reason,
You brushed it off though quite passive aggressively,
Swiftly taking the next turn right from here,
Cursing lines from the play we once performed on stage,
Acting vocal and painfully truthful
"Is that the future that we've mapped out for ourselves?"
Your voice so poisonous: "I don't love you",
Late as your hands eagerly intertwine another,
Late as I arrive one hour off the mark,
Checking my cracked watch but I know it's bold and true,
You grew impatiently while I grew still.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n). A blend of homesickness, nostalgia and deep longing for something, especially one's home in Wales; an ode to the loss of our homeland, our language and our traditions. •I update this quite infrequently :(•
