Sometimes your love is a house, it’s warm and safe, and I treasure it when it holds me,

in the soft smell of incense and lemon cakes, sex and corn flakes,

but I crave it when I’m away, like a scared duckling losing its way,

so I feel at ease holding your door keys but please just tell me you miss me because sometimes

your love is a house,

but it’s not my house,

because I don’t have a house,

and I don’t have you.

Because the thing is, when you reached for my hand, like a small boy saving this duckling,

something inside of me bloomed from oblivion, and now it’s never going to fade,

you’re my home, so you can’t leave, you can’t just complete me,

then decide my story line isn’t sufficient for your history book,

I was fine before February, before the dance, before the kiss,

you can’t simply give up on us, on everything we’ve gone through you just can’t,

you can’t grow a pink rose, then behead it because it’s not red.

I am the flourishing flowers in your garden trying so hard to be beautiful for you,

I am the patterns on your Victorian wallpaper screaming for you to notice me,

I am the windows with the goblet pleat curtains open showing you my all,

I am the fire in your masonry fireplace, I’m just a dusty old picture on your wall.

Just please tell me you miss me.

~ ‘Semi-Detached’


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