I know where it started, I remember the need
The root of the hunger was buried so deep
I got what I wanted
I held it so tight
It drained the life out of me.

It began at the bottom and worked its way up
All of my glue, coming unstuck
The essence of me dissolving and dripping, collapsing piece by piece.

He stood there and watched me slowly lose shape
He didn’t move, not toward me or away
And he never looked down and saw me there,
A puddle at his feet.

One thought on “

  1. I like it. Perhaps you should simply call it ‘Aside…’ I find that when writing my poems – sometimes the words are there but not the name; but, more often than not, simplicity is the best option. Hope that helps.

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