Exile.

So, many of my poems, and posts, and pieces of writing, are going to touch on my broken heart. It’s kind of taped back together for the time being, and having finally left the place where so many memories of love and loss constantly pricked me, I have been enjoying the distance, and the space, even though the person in the following poem remains one of my best friends. This came to me just now, as I looked out the window at the rustling, yellowing, leaves, and reminded me of bleak Cheshire copses, and Devon evenings by the fire.

CW: Implied self-harm.

Exile.

I am in exile from my own heart.
Far enough away that not everything constantly reminds me of her,
Not even every day brings her to mind any more.
Yet I sometimes find that sadness, amongst other momentarily-forgotten things in the bottom of my bag,
Or in the turning of the leaves, as Autumn comes.
Her copper hair always looked so good, burnished by the Autumn light,
And her insistence that every indoor space be filled with fire and warmth,
Filled us both with hope, and laughter.
I miss her terribly, and beautifully,
And even as the thought of her cuts me,
The warmth of blood on my skin reminds me of her distant closeness.