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Marcus Nordlund

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Marcus Nordlund

Getting Over You

The eye, growing dull,
cannot conjure up your face,
the room is as quiet as the grave.

My treacherous hand
thinks you left without a trace;
my tongue lies asleep in its cave.

One sense alone is true,
and keeps the watch for you,
its sorry master tugging at the leash.

I'm getting over you
and that means I'm losing you.

The clothes that you left
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have no memory of you,
yet haunt me and soothe with your smell.

To think I breathe in
tiny particles of you,
devour what you shed like a shell!

My enemies are twain:
indifference and pain,
bitterly contending for my soul.

I'm getting over you
and that means I'm losing you.