Sometimes it creeps in,
the foul smoke of our burning home
slipping under every door,
silent, deadly.
Then fire alarms jerk me from a peaceful sleep
and the curtains are ablaze,
our photo frames sizzling at the edges,
our bed empty.
Sometimes it's a slow burn disaster,
our house collapsing over weeks of disrepair.
neither of us can fix it,
and we stand among the rubble together.
I wish that no one had to wonder
how things fell apart so quickly,
but instead I lie among our smouldering sheets,
and your scent still clings and persists through the smoke.
YOU ARE READING
supine thoughts
PoetryPoetry exploring thoughts into love, sexuality, mental health and navigating the modern world.
