Friday, 23 January 2009

The day I stopped breathing

In the morning she came
 smell of white sheets all around,
my head buried in shame
in the soft plumy ground.

There she came and sat down,
her hand lay on my shoulder,
her forehead deep in frown 
as there was nothing colder.

I can't say what kind of hate
made me want to do that,
(the clock had struck eight)
but I held my breath
(her mouth said: " it's late"),
and for her, I played death.

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