LONG DISTANCE 

it was sunday night / monday morning
& I remember how you looked with your hair
             tied back, your
             forehead on the window
             of the train

             watching a dark world go screaming past
             silently, and nothing of me
             in the seat beside you but a
             reflection. this means in 7 years

             you won’t remember how
             this story went and I won’t
             be there to remind you. 

             in 7 years, the hands I
             held won’t exist
                                      anymore. 

                                      you are taping over all your
                                      memories; replacing every
                                      cell in your body out of
                                      carelessness. 

                     you could almost be
                     forgiven for not knowing
                     my name anymore 

so, 

     this is who I would be if you
     didn’t have me pinned down: 

     a taxidermied moth, still
     twitching from the shock
     of having finally touched the flame 

    glimpsing what hides behind the
    wall of light. 

                moving violent in the light
                and shifting. always shifting. 


YVES OLADE is a history student, living in the south of England. Published in The Rising Phoenix Review, his poetry is upcoming in Bombus Press and the Horn & Ivory zine, as well as others. An avid documentary fan, he hates driving and likes carnations. More of his poetry can be found at yvesolade.tumblr.com or on twitter @yvesolade.