All over again, but worse.

It seldom slows down;
it speeds up,
gets harder.
The whole farce
is relentless...
Epecially now.

Unanswered communications,
the sound of her walking
past the house
on her way back
from a night out.

Every man I see
is about to go and fuck her:
The brain does not work
as it could
so I stare out of the window
with the macabre,
and far fetched idea,
that she might be sat there
with someone else.

Every time I look
the pub garden
is as empty
as I am.