The Loneliness Project

We are nothing By Niamh Hill

you and I,

holding hands with a death grasp,

clinging to a past we no longer

remember, unwilling to let go,

more afraid of what

the future may hold

than fleeting memories

that tear us apart

limb by aging limb.

Resentment drains

colour from the day,

we lie not in words

but bitterness unspoken,

a gold ring binds us

to some forgotten dream,

a magic that fled long ago.

We wake each day

rattling bones

in a vacant house

to stare at an empty sky.

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