Love, a Little Less Lonely
In every heart there is a rope,
Kinder than the guillotine.
Her absence swings as an oil lamp, on
First fishing boat which sat on the harbour.
Old, rusty tankers anchor to the horizon.
Bottles break on jigsaw-pieced shores
Where tousled tides never reach:
Always leaving, never quite returning.
Truth is the simple ache,
We always knew.