The List

This is not a love song, a love poem or a love note
It is a list;
a way to organise things inside my head
I do insist we never kissed
Or saw each other naked
Or made dinner together
Or watched nights break across days
None of the above

But you sang and the September moon fell still
I pinned the lyrics to the sky
Words in silver, yellow, blood red

In the cradle of a dream
In all that is left unsaid
They are a postscript to a roll book of absences
A list of things I did not do with you.

Teresa Kane


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