Garden-Variety Oblivion
The scars, no longer fresh. They take time, but they heal.
By Mike PetersonPublished 3 months ago • Updated 3 months ago • 1 min read
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Photo by Ander Burdain on Unsplash
There was ash in
my hand and
the taste of death
on my lips
and every year that
went by, it felt a
little bit less
like Christmas.
There was only
the echo of laughter,
the aftertaste
of content.
I ached for
your touch, clung to
the fading vestiges
of our love.
I felt you
behind my teeth,
on the edges
of my breath,
drawing borders
around my words
and leaving me
choking on your name.
Now, half-remembered,
blurred and unfocused,
lost in some garden-
variety oblivion.
The scars,
no longer fresh.
They take time,
but they heal.
My last cigarette
was years ago.
So too was the last time
I thought I loved you.
About the Creator
Mike Peterson
Poet. Yoga teacher. Nature enthusiast.
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