Don’t let it haunt you – the streets, when you walk by the house as the palm trees whistle my name, when the leaves rustle up the memories of the place we used to live. Don’t let it hurt you – the way your words do, when you spill your lies up in the air, there at the kitchen sink you thrashed your ashtray in. Don’t let it bother you – when I salute the words of the strong ones, the ones who walk with their backs straight and their eyes as wild as their pain, from the places that they’ve grown, to a world unknown. Don’t let it eat at you – as I bite into this apple with my boots up on the veranda, as I leave my blood red stains on the cups of coffee you dream you could drink from. Just don’t let it kill you – as you wallow in self pity, in the emptiness of the room we used to love, of the scent that lingered there and the dust around the mug I used to use. There, on the bedroom table, in the house you sit alone and listen to the breeze blowing my name through the window and you hate yourself for listening, but more so, for remembering.
Location: Franschhoek, Cape Town
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