The first & last words I spoke to you were identical.
Regurgitation of primal instinct
Unwillingly born to my breath.

‘I love you’

I smiled with delayed recognition,

My pitifully soft instincts disembowelling mundane exchange,

‘I’m sorry’

I corrected with sick, pulsing insides. Face falling with vulnerable realisation.

Pathetic, prophetic irony.
You didn’t reciprocate at the beginning nor the end,
Yet I still dream of your mirage off in the distance, that mirror you wore in-between.

I see now,
With skin burning and eyes bleeding,
It always going to end this way.
Pity me the hopeful fool,

Crawling for water in the desert.