I have to unhand her, unhold her,
spell a widdershins wander
to unpick the stitches of time
sewn together.
I have to unlive her, unlove her,
-muster a fiction, a line of defence,
a charm of protection, a cobbled pretence
to convince that I'm better without her,
- but to court a dementia
that summons a shade
to centre upon the mistakes
that we made-
is, itself, a deceit.
For there were such pleasures
embossed on the soul
to remain in forevers
that cannot be changed.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 3:58 AM UTC
I have to unhand her, unhold her,
spell a widdershins wander
to unpick the stitches of time
sewn together.
I have to unlive her, unlove her,
-muster a fiction, a line of defence,
a charm of protection, a cobbled pretence
to convince that I'm better without her,
- but to court a dementia
that summons a shade
to centre upon the mistakes
that we made-
is, itself, a deceit.
For there were such pleasures
embossed on the soul
to remain in forevers
that cannot be changed.
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