Poetry

15. about old rooms

decisions

I’ll come when the first
bell has rung,
alternating between suspicion
and exhilaration.
Old wooden floors will squeak
under my feet, heavy with fear.

 Kissing sunshine on the back
I will think how you no longer
Smell the same when you smile.

 When I leave you in your room,
looking back I will see nothing more than
traces of a body –

you are made of Sunlight, man, I’ll laugh,
trying to conceal the cracking boards
too weak to carry the weight
of you
in me.

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