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An epistolary

By Hannah MoorePublished 5 months ago Updated 5 months ago 1 min read
Photo by Dan Gribbin on Unsplash

Dear George,

I heard you come in late last night,

Stealthy in the hall below.

I heard you making toast, I think,

Though no smell stirred my appetite.


Last week I saw you on the street,

Not where you should have been.

I stood and watched you walk away,

My ribs a cage for my heart beat.


I cooked your favourite weekend treat,

And laid your place for you.

You never came to sit with me.

Alone, I did not want to eat.


In a shop, I smelled you pass me,

On someone else’s skin.

You wafted through the citrus fruit,

And I was lost in memory.


At night I reach to pull you near,

To feel there’s nothing there.

I love you still, but George, I’m angry,

You chose to go, and leave me here.


So if you find this note jarring,

It’s how it feels to live,

The rhythms off, the rhymes abnormal,

The pattern of my bitter grief.




About the Creator

Hannah Moore

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