Discarded

So many things to discard
I wonder if you should be one of them?
When I ask I know I know I already know
The answer to that question.

Dusty things that weigh me down,
Like thoughts of you that reverberate;
Answers that repeat when every single time
I ask again that question.

So why do I call -
And why do I write?
Why do I put myself on the line,
When I know you won't even cut me down.

You'll just not be there, not be there at all
Having walked away and left me here.

Why do I write you,
When I swore the last?
The last time I let you roll me over,
Rolled me away and forgot where you put me.

You'll just not be there, not be there at all
Having looked away and left me here.

When I walked away that time
I felt better than I had, for "so long".
But that is when you suddenly remembered -
Hollow answers: you missed me.

So many things to discard
I wonder if I could've been one of them?
A question I probably should not expect -
To understand the answer.

I already know.

9/8/20

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printed 30 January 2023
© Huw Powell