A syrup-sweet lover, who sticks around

Gentle affection, appreciation of another,

becomes a deep attachment

so that when you go,

I feel a mix of lost and sick

Wading through the troubles of how to plaster things back together

and fill an empty bed with whatever I can,

realistically an imaginary you,

if things had worked out differently.

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Heart pace

I cry so much I’m nearly sick

Heaving organs inside my brass chest

Familiar feeling

The echoes of loss bang around in the hollow

Head a mess of whirring dread convulsions move the walls and ceiling

Floor there to meet my jointed knees

Hands flat on lino

Piston heart pushing me forward into wretches