Draughts

I closed my eyes
and your image flashed into my mind
so bright that I could see nothing else
for quite some time.

From black to picture
from picture to present –
both of them, though, appeared
in front of me with the same
luminosity.

Like an etching in my mind,
frame frozen in time –
If I asked it to stop,
then I’d only be committing a lie.

To sink in such
loveliness of loneliness,
of escaping in drafts of pints
in conversations with others to spare.

This is a wound that will not fade,
that will not scar,
that will not heal.

A near-constant drive to
distraction and work
to try and blind myself
of the image of you.

Never much good at that game,
as if it isn’t obvious by now.
Sinking in cups of tea,
drowning in words of my own creation
as the only possible means
of admitting such low defeat.

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