The desire-less dreams of simple suffocation dawn 
     on me after only one hour at your Aunt’s.
 There’s fourteen books stacked
        on the shelf and you say how 
      funny it is that they belong in the back 
    with the boxes. 
 There’s nothing wrong about believing in 
           beauty, 
         and wanting to think of being somewhere where any 
       of your opinions, or thoughts, 
                                             matter, 
            but I guess you were right to believe that 
         no one is really capable of anything pure 
       and that we’re all vain and self-driven. 
I loved you though, and if any part of me 
          mattered, then I’m sorry for never asking 
        for the moments I needed and for always 
      thinking it meant something 
                               more. 
   In the putridly placid, you glance up and witness the 
        belated bite, with nothing, 
                                  none, 
                 but the terror of my eyes,  fixated on the 
                                                                              shelf. 

Published by Charlotte Griffiths