In Gillingham Park,
nothing is really wrong.
There is a slow dance of sycamore leaves
in burnt orange
and falling greens.
Even the dog has no reason
to be hangdog today.
There is space :
a lungful of air
that could be gasped as happiness.
But my boots are stuck in mud.
On self destruct,
I choose that sad,
stupidly sadder-than-sad,
Ed Sheeran song to play.
...then put his hand on my cheek
and wiped a tear from the side of my face..
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