It was love,
Sweet and thick like apple sauce.
Cinnamon kisses that smelt like home
and a place on your chest for my head, to match.
They would say ‘He adores you.’
Almost in disbelief at the strength of it.
Fresh air after breathing through
scratching black lungs for two years,
maybe six.

Six years of sadness V six days of bliss.
Drunk, pulled like a magnet to your lips,
until the end came. And possibly,
were there any strength left in the bones of me,
I’d suffer it again to taste that yearning for myself
on your jagged edges. You know what it is
to be pulled too far apart,
to risk the chance at another chip,
away at an already, quite regrettably,
broken heart.


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