What became of you?
That’s the question that cascades from chaotic whispers as I catch my gaze in the mirror, and gasp,
laughing at the lack of lines in my ageing face as another day dawns.
I write myself a postcard,
calling into the radio four,
but nobody ever answers,
because I stopped existing when she kissed me this morning.
Such a gentle thing,
lips that tasted of peppermint press gently against me.
I was aghast, like a ghost,
glittering as I glide down the stairs,
throwing a glance at the front door,
and knowing, deep in my translucent bones that it will stay locked forever.
There is nothing for me,
outside of this house,
this place where pain is prevented and elation is everlasting.
There are no bills to pay,
no time to be a slave to,
just postcards that pass away,
phone calls that never connect,
and kisses that make me disappear.
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