Desaturated city in winter.
Colours sapped from astral streets,
Ethereal meets bleak.
A bad seed germinates as songs
built for sorrow
echo through cracks in pavements.
In the clamouring quiet men lug
Brutalist buildings puncture post-
and a soft thing suffers,
as lovers linger under lights below.
the daffodils in my room remind me of
spring when everything is new but
today I am old. In the breaths
between words there is only
you. I smoke cigarettes in high -
ceilinged rooms until my fingers are
sticky - stained, my days are
primary coloured red yellow
blue. I am alone among memorial
benches. Paths once walked with you resemble
scars, there are no leaves to colour
skies, the wind now claws my
face. Far away from kind
words, tenderness in
eyes; I am a gaping wound - things
unspoken bleed from me.
In vain he reaches for the
space which once I occupied
and in desperate moments I cling to
Him like a crucifix but there is no
comfort, only ghosts. The
memory of you lingers, heavy like
incense, drousing my
You can contact Maebh Harper here.