You’ve been out of the country for 11 hours and 15 minutes and I feel like I’m suddenly ageing at a noticeable rate.
Wisdom tells me to be honest with myself even though I am terribly clever at convincing myself of what I want to feel. The way they feel in the old black and white films you use to watch with your ex girlfriend.
Really I feel like Wooden Allen, adventurous in all aspects, harbouring volatile emotions in all aspects.
My mind prepares for loss; though you have told me you’re mine.
The side of my left palm is shaded black, proof my left hand wanders through a Black Sea now that you are gone.
It’s an ache that comes in the form of perfect unedited memories.
I hate how
I look at your hands
and still think,