You.

The clouds linger

Low

And the rain

Mists,

Which is very odd

For early February

In Australia.

I’ve just finished

My a nine-hour day,

Collapsing into my

Bed,

Windows bathing me

In an overcast glow.

For some strange reason

I think of you.

 

I think of you,

For the first time

In three years.

You’re married now,

Yes.

A wife and a kid.

Two cars,

A house,

Dream job,

White picket life;

All the domestic shit.

I don’t hate her,

You’re wife,

For taking my life.

I pity her,

Because she’s trapped

In you’re lies.

 

 

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