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By John Tustin

The grass will not grow where we have stepped together.

The flowers will not flower in the garden

And the violin sits atilt in the corner of the room

With her strings folded in silent protest like the pouting of crossed arms.

The music rests beneath your betrayal and the nest of my idols of you

That have been piled and set ablaze,

The orange of the flames a dull finality in my eyes.

I can’t want you anymore,

It’s not allowed.

Your paper doll paramours strung across my thoughts like clothes flapping on the line.

I don’t even bat them away. They are all I can see sometimes.

I want to die just so I can take charge of us.

Hit the reset button, restring the violin.

See a new skyline when I flip up the dingy shades of my eyelids.

I want to die so the blood of life does not seep into the frame when I make love to you in my dreams.

I want to die

Just to be close to you again

While I haunt the living man beside you who does not really love you.

I want to die

Just to be close to you again, even if it’s just when you sleep

And it’s a closeness only of proximity.


More than nothing.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. contains links to his published poetry online.

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