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the green fruit pastille

Candice Daphne

roots remain cold under stomachs

beginnings of a new stem meet the world in february

       the plants are lies;

       the carbon dioxide is tainted and so are you

chlorophyll has evaporated 

sunken deep within the eyes

leaves absorb thick damp air,

the kind that hangs heavy like a 

         tyre                   swing

if you look close enough it is swaying

                          if you look closely at the chest you can see he has stopped breathing

when leaves absorb thick damp air

the grey settles in like dust

coarse winds run across window panes

but the plants remain still

coated with the sweat of the past

life and death run quick like seconds, the stages fold into one another

                                  until all that is left are autumn leaves

and no place for compartmentalising

tired tainted specs of memory lay here

the chlorophyll has returned not to the leaves

but to the sugar on your fingertips 

the green pastille was your favourite

you described them as such

but the words you used are forever


across the window panes 


in winds so close yet untouchable

About the Author

Candice Daphne is a writer from London with a MA in Contemporary Poetry and Literature. She regularly explores themes of loneliness, mental health, and loss in her writings. She is the author of ‘expired love letters’ a collection of poems under her pen name ‘cmc’. Her poetry has also appeared in The B'K literary magazine.

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