In My Pocket
I carried the ghost of you
home in my pocket,
the filmy sides of the fog
of you finding the seams.
Sometimes I roll my hand
around you, feel your anger
reforming to a cold pebble
from which I no longer seek warmth.
Occasionally I take you out and
we stare at one another, wordless,
having said it all before, and we are consoled
by the lack of mutual misunderstanding.
I show you the clock - the vacant slots
of minutes and hours, but we see
how time passes in your absence,
how it continues now you have stopped.
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