Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Cowboy Films

A myriad of matriarchs surround the stereo,

someone is making sandwiches,

that nobody will taste,

but will eat,

out of habit,

and politeness.

I pull down my dress,

aiming for knees,

I will never reach,

wondering what you would think of me,

if you weren’t obliged,

by family ties,

to love me.

Generations span the room,

holding hands,

handing out tissues,

swapping stories,

celebrating through the sad exchange of pleasantries,

and drinks.

I’m thinking again,

about myself,

and what you thought.

It has suddenly struck me,

that I don’t really know you at all,

though I do not know a year of my life,

without you.

I take a sandwich,

subtly sending it to it’s doom,

at the bottom of the kitchen bin.

Your old flat is overcrowded,

by grief,

the air is thick and lonely,

and I wonder if I’ll ever stop wondering,

why I left it too late,

to sit with you,

cross legged,

by your chair,

watching cowboy films,

with sandwiches.

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