I didn’t imagine it like this

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it started
with the same small
dreams I always have
this week another
month maybe a year
I was so disappointed
mouth bitter with
the loss of you
and so the squattable
territory of loss
leaving domesticity
abandoning us
was just a holding
pattern, temporary
as the tide
pulls washes scurfs
my faux Buddhist
tranquility enmeshed
like tongues in the mouth
on the couch in the bath
reaching for a dishcloth
asleep on my high
bed. I watched you
twinning the desire
for past and present
with the endless
resurrection of home.

Published
Categorized as musing

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

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