The broken shards of glass, sit patiently
behind our eyes, as each colour begins to
flash, like a malfunctioning strobe light.
We walk just the distance needed, our feet
in forced harmony, the green plastic bottles
stuck to our hands, that cut our lips at the
first sip, as we rest upon that rotten log,
our refuge for the last ten years.
And my sight seems again more focused, on
the hazed horizon, as your consistent jabbering
carries across this breeze like racing dandelion
seeds, my ears now responsive to everything
but your words.
Our last drop is now sunk, as my thoughts then
rehydrate the creases from the night previous, and
again under your constant guidance, I commit
to that hollow promise to make this my last.
Having breakfast in the old cemetery, our pupils
now dilated enough to absorb the suns first light,
you sit, your jacket worn from last nights antics,
yet your hands remain just as delicate as ever.
And the gravestones stand grey and moss covered,
the names long now faded, like torn scrolls, and shadow
the dying grass that form our blanket.
Your voice now a lasting annoyance, offers the only
distraction from this hankering silence as my legs,
dehydrated, cramp up once more, that leaves me
with that lasting limp, that fails to gather your attention,
yet still makes my journey home that little easier.
Jonathan Butcher has been writing poetry for around five years. He has had recent work appear in Popshot Magazine, Electric Windmill Press, The Rusty Nail, Turbulence and Black-Listed Magazine. He Lives in Sheffield in the north of England