Time Ache.





I sit on the grass and wait for you. Each time I curl my hair around my finger another second passes, and still I wait. I am wearing those black pumps that you said you liked, the ones with the ballet strap across. They are scuffed now, too long standing in one place.

 My knees are criss-crossed with scratches from where I knelt on those thorns. I pull them into my chest and look up at the sky. The moon is hanging fat and she swallows me.

 I think of what you said, of how you want to love the thou and not the me. I run my hands over the blades and wish the sweet voice of thou were awake.

You do not come to me.

Thou sleeps.

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