I let myself into the house,
I carry his keys in my bag;
but I am not the one entering the house,
it’s always someone else:
a story that mind tells my body –
I can’t take a kiss anymore,
palpitation can still my heart
when he gathers me in his arms.
The hibiscus does not stain my eyes red –
the colour that my irises hold for real;
he is not real
though I see him everyday
at the edge of bed, smell of his cigarette
real, smell of his deodorant real.
(Written to the prompt from We Write Poems. When you can’t invite him into your life, you become someone else and start living with him here.)