Do I still know you?

Do I still know you?

 

The walls themselves groan with your echoing moans.

 

Voices like out of tune violas merge into the wailing phones.

 

As they ring, desperate to be heard above your din,

 

Even the TV newsreader gets louder, struggling for recognition.

 

It would be rude to cover my ears,

 

I am a guest now.

 

My room smells of your drying laundry.

 

The titles of my books are no longer readable,

 

Covered by the white pants turned grey.
 
 
Copyright owned by Jay Cool

Image: Viola photo from Wikipedia and labelled ‘free for reuse’.

 

Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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