Untitled 40

As we get older we start to lie

To ourselves, that little bit more;

The line between truth and falsehood

Becomes opinion.


A long time ago I remember,

On a rooftop garden in Kensington,

Staring deep into my lover’s eyes.


We’d hook our legs across the edge

And bounce our feet along the brickwork

Picking frail moss from the cracks.

But not anymore.


I left her for the city,

For better or for worse,

But I sometimes still see her

Flitting through the corner of a dream.

Her black hair is wild in the midnight wind

And her face is broken porcelain

Glinting in the moonlight.

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