I look away from the wall
away from your face
the blood is dripping from the table
and all the dishes are dirty
I try to picture your eyes
no one put out the bins
there’s a knife in the door
pinning the letter you wrote
I feel quite sentimental
about my photograph of you
even while it burns in the fire
I look back at the wall
and your face is there
your head on my pillow
and you body in my kitchen
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