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Ode to a Nearly Beloved

Your name is a colour

I see the world in these days,

A tinted lens which deceives the eye,

Fills street corners with the shade of you.

As though through tracing paper,

I etch your features onto faces

Of strangers I’ll never know;

Now that’s what you’ve become.

Conversations echo, distorted by

Memory’s sleight of hand,

And recycled phrases I regurgitate,

Half-made up in the space of silence,

Until all meaning has leached away.

I’d still marvel at your poetry

Dissect each phrase, until it collapses

Into letters of unravelling form.

Are words just words?

Or is there something caught

In the snare of subtext

That would explain it all? 

Fill in the gaps left by things unsaid

To form a dot-to-dot picture

Consisting only of negative space,

Shaped like the distance between us?



I know now not to analyse nothingness,

Now I know that’s what I’ve done all along.

So I’ve stopped conjuring your name onto

The pixelated screen of disappointment

Watched a firework fade into a piece 

Of sky in the jigsaw of the world,

My eyes tracing the pattern,

Though I know I’ll soon


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