7:08 am.

by Harry

Submitted by Ben Brizell


Every morning now,
every cold, wet June morn
I awaken to a message from you,
the hours pass revealing the same time
each day, each morning.
Each message filled with a little black heart
at 7:08 am.

I smile and sigh
each sodden time
as I drag a t-shirt over my head
and resume listening to Bon Iver.
Whilst you walk somewhere, far away.
Remember when our times where filled together?
I do,
as I spit mouthwash into the sink and ruffle my dog’s fur.

Minutes upon minutes,
message upon messages.
A love intertwined,
on dreary May days.
Now it’s solemn June days
bringing smiles and sighs of optimistic hopelessness
at 7:08 am.

The coffee touches my lips,
A remembrance of what once was,
and what could of been,
but reality exists.
So the option was never really hopeful.
Yet still we exist at 7:08 am
whilst I read Seamus Heaney
and write the days away.
Days not of ours,
days not of anyone’s anymore.


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