by Iona Mandal aged 14


We told each other,
a month’s passing
would do no harm.

That the flipping
of each calendar page
would equate to no distance.

Rifted by the gap between
double blue ticks and green bubbles,
the lies of a glowing screen.

We are a car
With increasing mileage,
yet dwindling speed.

Time without momentum.
a grandfather clock,
a pendulum, never ceasing to sway.

Crease-less bed-sheets,
yet a stale stench,
of underused affection.

The ‘Welcome’ mat
left untouched,
to its soggy aftermath.

It is coincidental how,
two metres is the same
as six feet.

The distance
our hearts
lie sunken beneath.

The Poetry Zone

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