Layla Hendow

Look. Just there.
It’s that early morning haziness,
like some strange insomnia, or drug
of the wind and air; that we breathe inwards
like carried whispers,
to help us stay awake.

It hits me for a second time
as you lean in to kiss away the space
between us. You say something I don’t hear,
or don’t remember hearing,
and you’ve done it this time.
You’ve broken the ice

and we are stood,
knee deep, in these cold, grey waters.
These unforgiving waters that weave
through fields and houses,
like a cup accidentally spilled by a child.
The little stars

play hide and seek,
behind the constellations
we aren’t allowed to see. And you laugh
at the clouds tripping over one another.
And at us, knee deep and holding hands,
not bothering to find our feet.

I look at you,
and want to tell this fair, young thing
to run far, far away from here.
This creature that cannot see
the shackles round my wrists
and the prints left by other’s lips.

But that early-morning haziness
takes away any words I could have said.
We are left. Knee deep,
our hands plunged into the water.
Searching about like we are fishing
for pearls among the weeds.


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