Saturday, February 4, 2012

“Unused Prescription” © Mike Absalom January 7th

There were love letters in
your desk,
fly-blown sheets of endearment
carelessly stacked.

It must have been an
exasperating vigil,
waiting so long for fulfilment,
and then to find the words
as useless as a prescription left
behind in the medicine cabinet
after the patient has died.

Or recovered.
In love I suppose that is the
same thing.

I burned them.
I do not need another
prescription for misery.

Cremation is satisfyingly
like burial at sea.

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