Day 13, since you moved back in
and we agreed we’d give it
“one last shot”
working from home
I’m sat in this swivel chair
twitching like a downed deer
perhaps it would better to put the last shot in my temple
you’re across from me
laptop set on your knees
headsets drowning out the silence between us
your mother thinks you should leave me
I heard you on the phone earlier
she never liked me much
“too old, and too soft to start a family”, she once said
Merry Fucking Christmas
Things with no emotion;
• This swivel chair - although, it gets more screws than I do
• My coffee mug, stained with a bitter residue - we are kin
• The potted plant, sat on the windowsill, which casts a shadow that looks like a thumbs up, across my desk at 3pm, each day. Don’t you fucking patronise me, plant.
• Your face
© Darius the Mate
Written for dVerse.
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