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The fear of being left behind
is a nail in the wall
where a picture once was
It’s s the toiletries on the
bathroom floor
It’s scraping the grease
from the crevices
of the brand new
second hand set of pots
It’s the absence of mirrors in our sitting room
It’s the roses once
bright and blooming
now browned and withered
dropping off their branches
but the fear is not overwhelming
It’s just space
inevitably, albeit
unpredictably
to be filled once again.
The leaves on the vine
are already turning red
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