The pit of me
lurches, sucking and
straining against the fall.
and I am seeing your face
on repeat,
in shop windows
and in the grit under my fingernails.
I write poetry
on the back of till receipts,
and collect pieces of you
like shards;
each one of them an ache.
so I cling to your embrace
and count the beats of your heart;
in the hope I keep time
and don't get lost.
there is a pressing silence,
A blanket of words we refuse to say.
and I have begun to gather
my ghosts around me like petals.
I carry their graves
in my pocket;
and reach out for you
in the dark.
Author notes
thomas newman 
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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GREAT!
This is amazing! You should be proud of yourself for this one. I love the playing with words that happen troughout this poem. Great work!
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AWSOME! i'm so up for some of your language right now!
love you cheese!
x
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