You never forget not being loved,

it seeps like old wounds,

the taste and texture

left on cotton wool tongues.

Appetite blunted,

tears that pride refuses to fall.

It is like the smell of

wood smoke in the air,

it permeates your clothes and hair;

and afterwards you sit

in steaming baths and rub,

hiding eyes behind candlelight

so that the only sparkle people

see, is bounced straight from

crystal glasses that shine

prisms on white walls.

Echoes blink, as years pass,

and perhaps your hand

will tremble just a tad or so.

Yet the smiles you project

Still hold fast the

hurt inside.

©EMG05