To Think

To think how strange it must have been
To have heard half conversations, yours and mine,
As we spoke of things that must seem
Strange; you called in the night while I was lying,
Pretending that I could muster some sleep
For all the guilt in my heart,
Enough to make me often weep
That adding to your suffering I played my part.
To think how strange an apology sounds
For secret acts and crimes and shames
From behind a wall, while you hound
Me for what I’ve done, and I can’t even whisper your name.
To think of all the times you’d call
In the middle of a summer’s night,
And I’d hope no one stood in the hall
To hear my voice, or see the sight
Of a phone lit up, a judging call
In the dark, a fear inducing light.

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About Paul Carroll

Paul Carroll is a writer, born, raised and still living in Dublin. By day he's a student and bookseller, by night he writes fiction and uses social media.
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