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I don't miss you.

Every feeling you had
mirrored my own
uncannily.
You are still my sweet obsession,
Which means, I believe,
That I am yours.

One of us will crumble, stumble,
Into contact.
One of us will come.
And so, I need not miss you,
I am certain, somehow, that we are not done.
You still have a part to play in my life,

You're still there
You still care.
Proved correct 11.12.13
I should resist the temptation
To read into this photograph.
There is bound to be a very good reason
For the way she is gripping that glass of wine between you
So tightly that the glass might shatter,
The fact that you both have your arms around others,
Not each other,
The way your teeth are pressed together
In a tense, false smile.
I'm sure you're having a great holiday,
And the camera just captured an uneasy moment.
It's my inside knowledge
Promoting this interpretation,
I'm hardly objective.
I should close the page,
Close my mind,
Close the door,
And leave it be.
The Moon and the Sun
Are having such fun.
By Rowan.
Alone at home
The house is a symphony of day-sounds,
And wants me gone.
Scattered toys express sullen resentment at my pyjama'd presence,
The cats just stare.
I force my working self upon this world,
With keyboard clacks,
The kettle,
And boiling pasta.
I try a hum, then Spotify,
But it all feels alien, too forced.
The house wants the others;
Shrieking, laughing, conversation,
Clashing plates,
A Disney movie
The warmth of family.
This house
wants to be a home.
You don't stop being a child, and become an adult, all at once.
Remember the endless reservoir of energy you had?
It slowly becomes purpose, ambition, goals.
Limited, channelled, tunnelled, controlled.
Optimism leaks away, you learn restraint, you learn to be guarded.
You realise that to be otherwise, leaves you vulnerable,
That others can, and will, hurt you.
It can take decades to learn all these lessons,
You still assume that everyone will act like you, think like you,
You're floored by betrayal, again and again.
If you're lucky, you'll retain some childhood naïveté, some trust,
And circumvent cynicism, which is the death of freedom, and hope.
If it has found you, you must try to travel back to your childlike heart,
Everyone's map is different,
So I cannot show you the way.
He will come home tonight
Full of wine, his friends, and steak,
And gently 'wake'
Sleep faking me.
He'll be loving,
Vocal, animated, demonstrative,
He'll want to talk.
Apologetic, clumsy, sweet,
I will meet
My love again,
With a smiling snuggle,
And an indulgent, happy kiss.
I dream darkly, dicing with desire.
You are not to deny me these dangerous dreams,
They are dangerous only to me.
When nothing else remains,
When all else is stolen away,
They will still be deliciously distracting.
This is my disorder, my indulgence,
It’s how I declare my despair.
Deny me nothing, all is stolen away
Except the pictures my mind can paint,
Elusive, translucent, they will fade.
I’ll dream of the dreams of the dreams
Like tracing paper, or a silk screen
I’m trapped behind, living fantasy.
All I have, all I will have
Is muted copies.
It’s impossible to capture
Something so unreal.
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