Thursday Non-Love Poem.

I walk home alone with the thought of you,
Cars slosh by,
Tyres glisten,
I think of you as the rain soaks through,
and my hair goes black with moisture,
I think of you when red turns to green,
When I hear the distant trains murmur,
I am my own passerby
In empty shop windows,
Past the bargain booze and the DIY
I round the corner
Look over my shoulder,
Thinking of you,
I wipe the drizzle from my brows,
cover the slope of my nose,
Furrow down into a thousand layers,
Of soggy woollen scarves and damp sodden sleeves,
But as the melodic clink of a rucksack zip melts into
pavement slush and street light,
I somehow become
and untwined
from the thought
Of you,
Knowing that to think
Is not to know,
And that thinking
About you is no longer enough.


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