The phone jumped and buzzed, like a startled bird.
He answered and without her even saying a word
He filled his mind with hope that she would say what
He hoped she would say.
That she’d say, she misses him this day.
Her voice was a voice from the past, like a voice from the dead
But like a favourite book in his hands, he easily read,
Read into what she was going to think and going to say.
He’d pay for the guilt
But he’d have her on her mother’s quilt.
Then he’d have some new guilt to wash away the old stuff
And you’d think that by now she would have had enough
But no, she needed her fix, she needed it bad
As much as he, his.
He’d practiced saying “you know how it is”.
And she’d practiced listening and she’d practiced hearing it
She’d even got to know how to get used to fearing it
He’d practiced making sure that he’d let her
Absorb it all
He’d even promised that soon he would call.
So, addicted to wrong, he planted the idea
That soon enough, the two of them would be near
And, like an old known story told over again with his
Well rehearsed script
He lead her to her moral crypt.
The next breath was long, dark and deep like a valley
And her emotion slid and hid in a darkened alley
This tiny relived secret could remain hidden, save for the
Overflow of drips
And from her guilty pleasure he once again sips.
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