you have scars on your face
from where he left you
your blue eyes still aren’t dry
your blonde hair a thousand times.
you say you’re going to Samarra
won’t be back tomorrow,
you left a letter on the floor
bread winners won’t be baking
anymore.
I’ve been wondering for a while,
how records in your heart pull the Brompton shakes apart.
The blood is on your hands,
the bodies on the ground around us.
Make no future plans,
sever every bound that binds us, that ties us.
There is blood on the clothes
that you’d once wear for him
was it worth the lace gacade?
His hands you still feel round
your waist on rainy days.
I’ve been wondering for a while,
how records from your past
make the brief encounters last.
The blood is on your hands
the bodies on the ground around us.
Make no future plans,
sever every bound that binds us, that ties us.
