The Vice-textured Silhouette Of A Man: A Poem

I ran away from your death.

It had no language. Just oppression.

Silent satisfaction, wordlessness, disorientation.

You were still in that room.

The smoke in the old furniture. The hair that had fallen out.

Lying on the floor, your skin and dust, the scent in my nose.

A memory that cuts into the flesh.


I considered you a saviour, there were good things about you too.

Now I almost feel like I could never have known who you were.

Who held me, standing behind me.

Whose scent I inhaled without a doubt.

You left a yellow taste behind.


I talked to you with my head against the door.

Shoving notes through the slot.

Staring at the moon, holding on to the darkness

In my room. Thinking you’re there.

To get me maybe. Everything felt unsavoury.

I was convinced that death stood in the corner that night.

The shape of you, your body, stiff, open-mouthed,

Eyes wide open, trying to comfort me in

Unwelcome ways.

Never did the turning of a key feel better.

black and white blur child children
Photo by Matheus Bertelli on


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