It Never Really Happened, But It Doesn't Matter, I Love You Anyway

George Cairncross

Last night
we communicated
between the bedsheets.
Your flowered bra
swayed slowly
on the bedrail at the
foot of the bed
like a field of unplucked marigolds.
The bedsprings sang like a thousand
canaries on the mantelpiece
disguised as sparrows.
Outside,
dawn knocked on the
skylight
before coming in.

 

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