Distraction

My nights pass writing letters to never be sent, my days are paced in the wish to repent, My hours are filled with a list of to do's, point one; I must not think of you.

The kettle has boiled there's tea to be made, a shower to take, a bill to be paid, the airport I leave the runway I land, there's so much undone, so much to be planned;

My phone comes to life your name seeping through, my heat skips a beat I flounder anew, A thousand memories of us, and of you, of days spent together and nights spent apart, etched deep across my little black heart;

But the kettle has boiled there's tea to be made, a shower to take, a bill to be paid, A thousand e-mails I need to send, a trip to plan, some shoes to mend;

A day to fill with a list of to do's, point 2; I must not think of you.

cat