Hands Separate

Hands separate

Again

And again;

This time I

Don’t want to stay and look

Or turn around and glance

It doesn’t matter.

All that had to be said, perhaps wasn’t

Perhaps never will be.

But right now, there is nothing more I want to convey to you

As these hands separate.

But I will stare sombrely through strangers

Where you can’t see

How the said and the unsaid

Mow all over and then puncture me;

How the said and the unsaid

Make a joke of me

So that strangers we don’t know

Can pity the irony

And read from my face

That the joke’s not funny.

I always felt you lacked a real sense of humour.