Irroutine

This may sound poetic, but it's not.
On my journey into work,
I walk down a road named after you.
This happens.
On my way to town,
I pass a pub that claims your limbs,
This happens.
I work with a girl,
A sweet, happy girl
who approaches clients perfectly
and comes from your hometown
precisely thousands of miles away across an ocean.
It all sounds metaphorical
when I say that the steep sharp
hill winding down towards the high street is called
Richmond Hill
but the fact remains that it is.
Everywhere I go, I see you,
Tripping, tripping, trapped.
Whenever you read this, I'm still here,
Trapped and forever answering to you,
Forever letting you know
that wherever it took you, it left me
behind,
To rest,
To recover,
Not yet, not yet.

Whenever you read this; not yet,
Not yet

The End

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