Tuesday, 8 October 2013


How is it only eight? It could be eleven,
The night time brings with it the words.
a Drunken fool and that same Smooth talker,
separated by miles, stretched into hours.

Cupcake and coffee, code words in my little city,
Flat whites and sugary rewards.
Scrambled and toasted, pot and kettle,
New names and years long forgotten.

Who would have thought, who could have known,
waking up hearing 'lovely' all this time.
Spark up the Clipper, bring it to life,
happy yet cautious once again.

Here I am, making all these plans,
when will I ever learn?
A way with words, a kind heart to match,
it's never worked wonders before.

Uttering the worst words, venom on my lips,
hoping he can't see beneath them.
Rehearsing my anger, suppressing my hurt,
and maybe a glimmer of what's more.

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