We all took that vacation,
Coated in nausea
And sleeping pills.

I could no longer feel the pulse
Of all of our November mornings.

You'd grown accustomed to me.

I was ordinary now,
And my acquired perfection
Had turned to rust.

I was stifling your creativity,
And you could no longer see the beauty
Of the world that surrounded you.

Calliope had all the reason
To rejoice and weep.

Like the sun never shines
For very long in the winter,
We only ever wrote an excerpt
To the novel we started planning
During our first summer mornings.

I'll go to Bristol
With love in my heart,
Pure intent on my mind,
And gin carving out new interpretations
Of my reasoning.

And I have no time at all
To make sense of it.