The death of good intentions

I crush tablets beneath a spoon and remark on how even remedies turn to dust
if you apply just the right amount of pressure.

I hang my head because I forgot to live a little and now time’s slipping,
plus my shoulders ache from all the weight.

In my minds eye I can see fairy lights, decorating a gravestone
marked with the words ‘good intentions’.

I riffle through unopened letters that I sealed years ago
with the salt from tears I wasted on you.

These days all of my notebooks are empty
because I have run out of things to say
that I haven’t already screamed
to the heavens

not that it matters,
no one listened.

 

 

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