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Cracks

The words that breathe on your cherry drenched cheeks
with the weight of cold granite,
made cracks on velvet skin, where ripples once flowed.
The smash of a metal spoon against the chipped china
of the bowl you brought, because the origami boats that shined on its surface
reminded you of your childhood. Now they drowned, in your half– eaten,
milk-sodden Weetabix. And just like that you said ‘everything is ruined’.
Impure eyes, marked with red railway tracks, half covered behind jaded hands
showed tossing and turning in hot crumpled bed sheets
torn from their corners and collecting in the middle,
so you’re jolted awake by supple arms scratched with old mattress lines.
The glorified stone, poised on a callused finger, made you cringe.
You watch me laugh, a red party balloon popped by the head of a pin
it echoes across these whitewashed walls,
and settles like a yellow fog over your stiff new suit, the one I got for you.
I can practically point out the fuchsia coloured lipstick stains,
that linger on your skin, long after you crept on marbled floors,
towards that holy tap, to scrub off last nights ‘business calls, dear.’
You left me in the kitchen, scrubbing away a mess of my own,
last night’s dinner, the smell of home cooked lasagne,  
stained the otherwise pristine corian worktop,
an ugly blood orange blob, seeping in-between cracks.
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