[indistinguishable marks]

nothing really matters.
not the crows poised trilling
with neat claws and 
important feathers
in the corridor drenched 
with expired notice boards. 

not the pale white light
boasting leftover liquid cereal
on dark nights of slobber
spinning drunk over sloshy rain slabs
and honks that pull you up. 

not the Kiss,
or the sheets
that sheltered you both soft
for a time. 

not the cupboards upon cupboards,
of cold stale and printer paper, of you
nine years old and smiling with silk
at the jarring jolts of making. 

thinking how something so crammed tight
with everything, and everything, 
ends swiftly like a clap 
a crow's head tilt to the last laugh
a sharp unravel to the
deep well of endings.


AN: not sure. why don't you tell me what you think? 

Published by sophiegracehollis

I'm a solid girl from East London, England, now living in Scotland with my partner, Jillianne. I like to read, write, travel and play scrabble by the fire. I graduated university three years ago with a degree in English Literature. Now my work focusses on queer poetry and a heavy sense of nostalgia. I am obsessed with sand dunes, oak trees, the sea.

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