Forever is an Eternity
in Hell
We met at the sycamore
tree,
where the afternoon sun
painted freckles
across the scrubby
grass
and the summer heat was
bearable
as I sat with my back
against the trunk
listening to wood
pigeons high above
and the hum of a
distant tractor.
You carved my name in
the bark
with the pen-knife you
stole from your father
brass and wood,
smoothed by age
with a nick missing
from the cold steel blade
where he'd stabbed the
helmet of a Maltese guerilla.
I thought it was
touching, sweet,
a declaration of your
forever love,
to last until the end
of the world.
By summer's end you'd
moved on –
Lisa DiLuca wore black
lace bras
where mine were grey
from mixed washes
forever felt like a
taunt
whenever I passed the
spot on the way to school.
Wiser now, and when he
says 'forever' I don't believe him.
No-one can love
forever.
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