with one foot out the door
though you seemed to hold on
to both my hands

the painting on the floor
leaning on the mirror
was missing half of the spectra
of colors smeared on the palette

and though once you said you wanted not
a cake of any sort
pieces were left on the plate
bite marks all over
(don’t tell me it wasn’t you)

and so after a while
I took the forsaken tapestry
off the wall
for it reminded me of
beautiful pregnant rainclouds
that would never share
a drop


written for napowrimo day fifteen, “in the middle”

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