I’ve grown tired of thinking about you
Of remembering our love,
The hatred too,
Hand in glove.
We explored the Cam
Crossing the Severn
Near where for a time we lived. I am
Now the exile, far from where our love ran,
A refugee of spite.
I received your letter yesterday,
Which throws darkness into light,
Accusing me of hurting you a thousand ways,
Dishonouring your time,
Collapsing your future,
Encasing our shared past in corrosive lime
And adding to present torture.
Preserving the goodness is difficult
Sure, but dumping all with the rest of the trash
Seems absurdly fitful,
Seems pointlessly rash;
Broken bottles and last night’s takeaway
Old newspapers, discarded cans,
Memories made to last in crumbling array,
Effortlessly disposed of. Sans love, sans hope. Sans.