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Remnants of Love

An oil spill covers our beach
words and sludge under foot.
Stones, pebbles blackened with rumour,
the memories you drowned.

Words and sludge under foot
dragging me under back into
the memories you drowned -
when I still find you in my pockets,

dragging me under back into
this stopped clock, this frozen hour
when I still find you in my pockets -
a wrapper, a receipt of somewhere we’ll never return.

This stopped clock, this frozen hour -
your scent left years ago, a fair-weather perfume unlike
a wrapper, a receipt of somewhere we’ll never return
which leaves me holding a blank map, searching for invisible clues.

Copyright © Thomas Harrison

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