a tragedy untold: by and for me

She visits me in warm sepia dreams.
Leaves a blanket of patchwork memories and
make believe, how I wish to curl up into her
wicked mirage and fall back asleep.
Instead I fold up her name gently and tuck
it between pillow and unkissed cheek.

If I was more wistful novella than young
woman I would want to be read on a beach.
Her approximation would appear around chapter
three. On the last page we would be holding hands
remembering when we painted each other on
sky-coloured fabric with rainbow threads, all these
possessive inky syllables in a state of fragile
permanence until the storyline snaps, pages slip
out of hand and the gossiping waves set this
stolen and romanticised piece of her free.

Nobody mourns the loss of us, not my
unsuspecting muse or the ocean breeze.
The blurred and crumpled title reads
a crush or otherwise tragedy untold
by and for me.

Talk to me

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