By Poppy Scarlett

One insignificant white bench – wasted fragrant roses falling
into the blankness of the oncoming darkness.
You sit I lean –
watching as the sun sinks further caressing all those sleepers
who lie themselves warm in their imaginings.

No ins – no outs other than to say here we are
coming together albeit
as two perfect strangers with nothing to share outside
these moments of our dissatisfaction.

We communicate in a language that no longer exists
each not fulfilling
what the other might need.

It would seem that an opening has suddenly arisen
‘single, lonely lady awaits’
although the classifieds
do not appeal to my sense of reasoning’s
dialect
and my wanting is left unbalanced as the stories
told about ‘love’ are to be undyingly
pierced…

 

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