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Blackjack (Dirty Snow)

December 12, 2013

onehundredandfifteen

You lay in my arms.
And dreamt of dead flowers.
Because you knew.
Sick heart.
You were leaving.
Where did you go?
Whilst I smoked.
And you slept.
We both know.
Though you kept.
The graveside from the grieving.
And I’m ill again.
I was never really well.
And I know.
You know.
But you don’t know.
Just how ill I’ve really been.
Just how badly I’m hurt.
For each knife and new lover.
I’m no better.
No worse.
I thought no sea and no sand.
Would stand between us.
Now I’ve only to catch.
The smell of your sweat on my fingers.
And I shelter.
All those and safe and small places.
Where I curl up and cower.
When you’re lying in bed.
Whilst I’m stood in the shower.
And list all the sound reasons.
That I have not to love you.
If you were to take to your heels.
And set down with another.
All the same silly reasons.
That I dreamt up before.
When I blamed blood on the virgin.
And lust on the whore.

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From → Poetry

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