It doesn’t knock.
It waits.
Finds you when the day’s too quiet,
when the night sweats loneliness,
when the bottle’s near empty.
When the bed feels too big,
and the past crawls back.
When you tell yourself,
One last time.
It comes soft, familiar,
like a childhood song
you can’t shake
from your head.
And by the time you realise,
it’s got you by the wrist,
pulling you into the dance.
Winner of the Siderious Poetry Prize · Featured in Brute
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