You stalked my walls and found them wanting.
Then you, with exquisite ease,
Complicit I bade the watchmen wait,
For a signal of your purpose.
But you so carefully and quietly,
began picking and removing, unpacking and exposing,
unwinding and reclaiming all,
that you could posses.
And I laughed at the pleasure of it
and I laughed the horror of it.
Now I lie on the floor,
Still drunk on you,
And stare stupefied at all of my parts,
Arranged so neatly around me.
I set the dogs to prowl the walls for you,
They have your scent,
they bay for your blood,
But you are lost to them,
And no one comes now to stalk the walls.
(c) Copyright 2016 Patricia Cunningham
Patricia Cunningham loves reading, quiet teashops and getting lost in foreign cities. Her work has been published in numerous publications, including ‘The Runt’ magazine and the travel section of the Telegraph.