It was like an affair, but not. There was
love in my heart, and hers, I believe.
We saw new places together, and
were inseparable, kind of.
She was always stronger, in ways that
men count. She knew all my
weaknesses.
She was diamond. And I was glass.
Men may count friendship as
something less, than rings on the
finger, and sonogram pictures.
But you were my love, and I stutter
and start, as I think of the way, and
the manner, it was lost.
Claire Sexton is a forty something Welsh writer who has previously been published in Ink, Sweat and Tears, Peeking Cat Poetry, The Stare’s Nest, and Light – a journal of photography and poetry. She often writes about her struggles with her mental health and loneliness.
Foxglove Journal 
Love your blunt honest writing(s).
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