Heading North

The morning after we sat in the cafe that night
To speak about leaving and how we could do it,
I dreamt of a black cat the size of my palm
Which pushed its face against my cheek.
 
She wanted me to open her
Like a zipped computer file
And free the woman
Trapped inside.
 
I dreamt of killing moths, clapping my hands,
Releasing females from their powdered frames
On the stairs of a whitewashed National Gallery,
Or running in the hills of Swindon –
 
Turning left, in tears, and heading north.

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About Vince Stephen

You can find information about me on my blog's "About" page.
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