Another trip around the sun.
Hand in hand, or so I thought:
I never imagined you on the run
And when I figured, so hard I fought.
The ink in my card had yet to dry,
though the written word didn't fade.
Never have I thought above it I'd cry
through silent screams, begging you stay.
***
Many months later and I'm still here,
graciously aching, though with less fear.
My labour of love long crumpled in a bin.
Darling, is it odd I still carry you within?
Another trip around the sun.
Persistence of touch doing the most:
In the meantime all's been said and done.
For now I'm holding onto a mere ghost.
YOU ARE READING
Between The Lines
PoetryExcerpts from postcards and letters once travelling across Europe.
