He couldn’t fill my lack that stacks. My heart; that yearn that burns, my unsteady head. My longing pining, whining, crying, “come to me”. There are no more words so stern, the steady head right now. Just me listening to the high tide words so deep, just need to sleep. It strikes my senses, wet ink spreading, words of incense intoxicating. Palpable is my glum, there is no rule of thumb. I’m alone, my mother’s busy. While others snuggle, I’m caught in a muddle.
By Rachel Wrathall
I found myself alone today
with no one here to smile with.
He’s a thousand feet up and going away;
I hope his return is swift.