the words going round in my head.
I wanted to tell you – often
how sad and depressed I was
not seeing you this time.
And yet I feel your distance – more than
these footsteps, that have come between us.
Before closing this letter, I taste
the malignant saliva of my haste.
Would that I could
forget your face, wipe unsoiled all taste.
Blameless are they not;
those who drink deep of their disgrace.
I trespass stupidly, amid
the fragments of remnants censured
of all blame
Yet still these white vacant pages
make me realise, that
I should have written sooner …