Heart Murmur

I had pushed my glasses

onto the top of my head –

holding my hair back.

I reach up to steady them

as I run for the train

but they are not there.

They are in my pocket,

already taken off.

It is only remembered sensation

that I now wear –

A tightness behind my ears

like a hair band.


Later, at home,

I take my socks off,

wiggling my toes.

The elastic has left pink crenellations,

in lines upon my skin.

It is as if

the socks are still on my feet.

I rub the indents

with the palm of my hand.


I was in love with you

a long time ago.

It is a memory

not a feeling.

A flickering diastole,

tuning intermittently

to the shape of someone’s head

the way they walk

laughter overheard at a party.

It is never you.

You are a warm sunny echo

in my ribcage.

You are a heart murmur.


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