left luggage


left luggage.

She wakes up
drinks tea and puts on her make up
leaves home and catches the subway
at the start of a new day
and her face looks okay
just a little bit older
two degrees colder
because the man on whose shoulder she used to rely on
to cry on
is gone.
The letter was on the sideboard
stating that he had got bored and wouldn’t be back
and Jack(that was his name)
had packed up his bags left a half smoked packet of fags on the chair
and moved out of her place.

Her face is a picture painted in oils 
boiling on the inside where the tears glide over the ‘it’s over’
No one had told her and she hadn’t guessed
that she would be left all alone.

But you make a bed 
you lie in it
make love 
have fun then you die in it
and it is always this way
So put on your make up and fake it
take it 
and break your heart
at the start of your day.
Is it not always this way?

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