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wet paint

It’s the scent
of wet paint
that makes me
miss most our
simple Sunday sins.

I was sure I’d find solace
where I left it last -
the foot of your bed
buried under every cover,
less for warmth
than the intimacy
of touching your
bare mattress –
it should all be there,
waiting, unchanged.

But together,
we paint alone, now.
My strokes so wide
I could never fit
in the closeness
of that space.

And yours, so long,
you'll never find
the way back.

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Comments


  • caseyalive
    February 6

    Edit | Reply

    amazing

    this is absolutely beautiful... as i read this thoughts of my own past experiences came to mind. i enjoy free-verse poetry and this is an amazing example. 2 thumbs up anyday.

    . Rewarded 4


  • RoisinDubh
    February 6

    Edit | Reply
    This is a really beautiful poem.
    I especially love the opening stanza,
    it really sets a feel and your emotions really
    carry through with each word.
    Keep up the great work.
    RD

    . Rewarded 4