9 1 17

23Jul2016 174149 0029 Buda and Prague

Marks Of Us

There are the marks of us
here, in beds not yet left that
warm in the afternoon sun. In clothes
that reveal too much and too little, now
littered across the floor. I see us, in
dresses without jackets and the
stain of lipstick left on the door. They are
from nights we half remember and
half wish to forget, when we battered
our bodies and wondered if love
would be ours yet. Those nights
we cried to one another about
things that didn’t matter but
mattered all the same; then (and now) you
were the solace to my aching brain. I wonder
if we will look back on these nights of
beautiful people and half-finished bottles
of wine and in ten years time
we will smile. Still not knowing what the
good in it was, but missing them
all the same

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