10 October 2010 at 10 am:
You lay in a tattoo parlour
Etching pain onto your skin
And admiring the leggy assistant
I stood in court
Nauseated by the simplicity,
Smell –
old wood mixed with stale air –
And pace at which you end
An entire chapter of your life.
Your pain is forever on your skin
Mine is stored in every cell
In every lonely moment
And endings always smell
Like
Old wood and stale air.

Copyright Hiraeth 2015