marmalade

They are the morning coffees keeping me awake,
the silent glances across the table.

They are the wishes on birthday cakes
that almost came true,
your almond shaped eyes
in my mind.

They are stirred-in chocolate powder,
the "I wish I could've"s.

They are the notes left on pillows,
the never made beds.

They are the car keys in the rubbish bins
and scattered photographs.

They are the dresses hanging in the cupboard,
the bleeding mascara.

They are the words hanging from telephone lines.

They are the figures in a hospital,
the sunday morning news.

They are deliberate missed calls
left to infuriate,
the messages left without intentions.

They are the songs written beside empty bottles
on explicit truth.

They are the petals on a kitchen floor,
the knife tumbling to the sink.

They are the breaths minimizing,
an unhealing wound.
They are the dreams gone bad and


everything is real.