Tuesday, 16 April 2013


Old habits die hard,
old fears scream the loudest, in the dark.
I can hear the house breathing, she's settling into her bones - the groaning fridge, the popping furnace,
the snoring women for whom sleep has come.
My fear screams into my ears, boiling, agitated - what if?
what if?
what if?

I have nothing to tell her
no solace to give,
nothing more than to add the dripping of
tears on a pillowcase
to the sounds of a
settling home.

Dawn comes
peeking round corners and
sliding through the sliver between drawn drapes
and with it brings the promise of
something i practise
how to not look for
And so, she weeps.
Weep, then - if weeping is the act
that gives you peace.

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