Air

So, it ends, and I sit looking out of a window.
I don't have to write about her anymore. She's
In sight, but now dusty and distant, a curio,
Set on a shelf long ago, now ignored, and
My mind can go wandering off to old
Places her grip had made too far away to be
Reached: fake lovers, fantasies of actual
Fulfillment, patches of sunshine, success,
Not defeat, air for a room which was stuffy
From dust. The curio stays, but the mind's
Turned away. It peers through the glass
And is pleased.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 45 times
Written on 2017-02-03 at 23:29

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