Unpacking my bag,
in the golden gloom
of my room,
adrift I go
into a deep crimson:
the unpacking of my heart.
It’s deepest fears,
and biggest regrets,
its hopes and its dreams,
with stains of pain
and souvenirs of reprisals,
unfolding in the
palm of your hands.
I still wonder
if your hands
were too small
or the contents
of my heart too big,
or were they so grainy,
you let them slip
through your fingers
like sand.
Now darling,
the clothes
in this old bag
smell of you
and I
and cigarettes.
Sigh
So, just in case you’ve been smoking some odds too,
let me tell you-
Those were the days I came to you naked;
now I shall not come to you at all.
The fragments
of your broken heart
dangle from your rib cage,
and the void
morphs
into a lump
that sport-climbs
its way up
to your throat,
where it secures
its place.
