Jon Dawes

All I have are parentheses and periods to
try and glue your broken pieces together.
An ineffectual abuse of punctuation;
my war cry against the tyranny of
the distance between us.

She hates

It hits me
with the force of a million butterflies
fluttering in disjoint-unity against
every surface of my skin.

Those left behind never understand
why those of us who choose
to leave would
ever want to
go.

A lone traveller.
Flailing in a sea of my own words.

Sometimes it doesn’t make sense.
I let it drift over me like a breeze
drifting past and while I know it was there
it leaves not a trace of itself.