Always a departure,
from the all too quick hour.
We separate with the words;
"I'll be in touch".
All too abruptly,
those words prove to be a lie.
Desolate and in despair,
a void and emptiness is left.
Then realisation,
childish innocence leaves.
Grown-up resentment occurs.
Those words return to haunt.
Full-circle at last,
revenge complete, hurt refunded.
Perhaps it is wrong to be pleased,
when deciding, to not stay in touch.
All golden and veined,
looking like you should be blue.
Mottled like jute,
with a smell so sweet.
I sit and look at you,
my gaze hard and fixed.
Waiting for the gasp,
that will signal your demise.