I dream of far flung places –

the recesses of my memories –

old cornered crooks of dusty hardback books

cataloguing misspelled spaces and smells of Annalise.


In January she smelled of February,

was swatches of the sunshine

and paint chips of witty quips

I’d use to brush my cheeks

though I’d rather stain my lips

and paint forever in my dreams

than stubbornly memorise

subpar sentences for sunshine

and the fading scents of Annalise.


In Autumn I would fall

between the cracks

between the leaves

and she would have already been

somewhere she’d rather be

someplace else she would be sight seeing

I hope she doesn’t mind being

the subject of my dreaming

come winter and the raining

damp and itchy Spring.


I’d rather keep believing

this Summer belongs to –

but the way the sun is scorching

I’m left with only traces

mismatching other faces

and I cannot keep up spending

furtively pretending

I haven’t fallen through the spaces

between those far flung places


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