To my soon to be ex

The gaze, your eyes
searching my eyes,
for too long now.

Last month, last week,
that which you sought,
at the surface,

a scent or hint
was the first thing
you could retrieve.

It has sunk now
below the skin,
so long you look

each day, never
asking what drowns,
nor pulls it down

until one day
that tin anchor
on love condemns

it to the silt.

* four syllable lines, three line stanzas, written with verbs and nouns and as little scaffolding as possible.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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