Monday, 28 April 2014


Old curtains share the screams of old kettles,
Tailing off to mute and ending night-light,
All to break a message into my brain:
Tomorrow is another day of moving on.

And the moon and the street lamps,
Out of sight, deliver a riddle:
Forget the sound that comes after our light.
If you fail to speak, to romantic eyes,

Then consider yourself a boring coward. Cowardice
Is the space between carpe diem and suicide.

I don't believe there was romance in your eyes,
As you unraveled, tip-toed, to touch mine with your thumb,

Leaving me with a single line that nobody would read.

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