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Mar 2017
Hell is this house.

Your phone calls
dropping at 4 am
like bomb blasts.

Your perfume,
like a refugee,
living between
my messy
bed sheets.

Your stuff,
strategically forgotten,
in every **** corner.

Each room a minefield.
Each drawer a thread.

I finally finish packing up the last boxes.
Load them in my car.
Close the front door.
Turn the engine on.
See you waving from the rear-view mirror.
Written by
nmo  25/Amsterdam
       ---, Isabelle, Lora Lee, ---, Mark Tilford and 18 others
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