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We spoke of the supernatural.
Hands around hot coffee cups, we swapped stories
of rented houses with decaying walls but a concrete presence.
Of snarling black dogs in dreams and forbidden Ouija
boards. I had never been on the edge of my seat before.
Your thin fingers grazed my knee but I didn’t jump.
That was the beginning.
Too broke for a break we holidayed in cafés.
One hundred mugs, cups and glasses drained by us,
stained by my cheap kiss-proof lipstick.
But you’ve carved up this town now.
I’ll never see your frame bent over a book on my streets.
Do you roam your roads like a ghost?
‘Go home!’, ‘Go home!’ I shout.
But you’re gone.
Submissions are now closed for all HeadStuff poetry categories, including Poem of The Week, Unbound, and New Voices. We are still open for submissions of reviews, essays and interviews, please email pitches to [email protected] Please keep checking our submissions page below, there will be news before the end of January on some exciting new opportunities in the poetry section.