Eleven Lines

Self-absorbed, we soon lost touch,
It didn’t seem to matter much;
We did not do such things at all,
Not on the lines nor in the hall
That people did, in days before.
Relatives, friends we contacted
To check and ask if they still lived,
But you, tacked against a cottage wall
In a painting of the dream appalled;
Chiselled from each other’s granite,
Circles now round different planets.

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