Just sitting here reading shitloads of Bukowski rather than revising. This must stop.

Untitled feeling

Somedays, 

I feel truly sad.

In a fleeting drop into 

that place 

between nostalgia and memory,

those feelings can touch me, 

in their husky forms; 

reaching out like they were buried alive,

gasping and grasping 

for the air they need

and I mourn for those days

we would lay in bed, 

just you 

and me 

and the light flooding in 

through the blinds,

making patterns on our skin, 

which I traced with my fingertips. 

My head on your chest, 

or your head in my lap, 

no goals, 

no ambition 

but to be with you. 

Because now, when I see you again, 

that magic is lost; 

evaporated into thin air 

as we pass on the stairs,

relegated to the lost-and-not-found 

with nothing 

but a wry smile of aknowledgment that, 

yes, 

we once loved, 

but we don’t anymore. 

And I feel so ‘OK’ 

that I feel like crying - 

almost wish that it hurt like hell,

to legitimise those times we shared, 

where I thought I was 

happy. 

I wish it hurt like before, 

with my sobs ripping out of my chest,

like snarling, angry teeth 

and my body paralysed with a pain 

I could never have imagined

at the thought of losing you to another. 

But I feel nothing. 

Yes, somedays,

I feel truly sad 

when I think about what we’ve become.