Before The Honey

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I clearly remember the last conversation we had before you honeyed me to death.   I recall you stood on  your last legs of youth, determined, unexpected in my front room, brandishing the day’s newspaper like a truncheon, sm...

I clearly remember the last

conversation we had

before you honeyed me to death.

 

I recall you stood on 

your last legs of youth,

determined, unexpected in my

front room, brandishing the

day’s newspaper like a

truncheon, smiling hard as if

your mouth was holding your

tired, suntanned skin on to

your face.

 

If I’m not mistaken you were

damp from a summer downpour,

hinting, pulling at sodden floral 

cloth like dogs tug at 

blankets for attention, uttering

pseudo-profound phrases 

fresh from the footnotes of

organisational diaries,

and your gaze didn’t

drift from me,

following me like

helicopter beams trace

urban criminals.

 

When I finally screamed and yelled,

demanded to know who

let you into my house,

you just laughed.

Then you held a dainty

finger to my lips like 

it was the missing

piece in the 

indent of my philtrum, and

gravely accused me of

focusing on the negative in the

situation yet again.

 

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