She returned
from Milan
with a leather
jacket, only
to find me
beside myself
with distraction
about a feckless
slip of a harpy
with whom I had
kept company
in her absence.
She thought me
unappreciative.
My pain mattered
more to me, and
the cut wasn’t
what I’d expected.
But it grew on me
and I calmed down
only to be bedridden
for losing the love
of a football team.
Then I got better
and went mad, and
she finally
turned her back
on the pain
which skewered
her mind like
offal spitted
on a blazing
hell fire.
When she left
me I wandered
crazily dazed
in search of her
and distracted
lost her jacket
on a bus. I
live with
the loss
but still
regret it.
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