Precious Things Lost

I make myself walk in the afternoon,
chestnuts splayed on my path,
their bellies split open to the sky,
fruits ripened and waiting.

I carefully take an open, spiky hull, fruit enclosed,
carry it back to my room, to the ancient walls.
I touch the smooth, dark skin,
drawn to the attachment scar that held it.

I add it to my collection on the mantelpiece
with sprigs of dried-out lavender, a pine cone,
a grey stone from a beach of bones back home
and coins too heavy to haul around.

I sleep under a thick fleece blanket,
dream you kiss my white flesh
in the ruins of an ancient castle,
lead me along a trail of stars marking our way back.

In the morning, I wake remembering I’ve left you,
ran to these unfamiliar hills for solace;
a maroon-coloured stain
spreads on the sheets like a poppy.

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