The Back Seat

the back seat, lines that meet

I hang behind your ghost heat

I reach, towards fades dreams

a lie I’ve told, now on repeat

 

places, our sense of presence

lonely is the naked tenement

detachments, replaced sentiments

objects once warm lay barren

 

and I stare, at the back of your chair

remember how you kept your hair

a touch too late now, to regret

the things that I had left unsaid

Done