Pica pica

Presently, I’m plagued by single magpies.
They taunt turned corners ever since you left,

pinched my truth, which now metastasised lies
like a radiograph result, bereft.

Our secret’s festooned on telephone wires,
no silver tongues nor laughing girls bring joy.

Grief is a thing with feathers, desire
clipped down via equine wooden decoy.

Perched in my haunt (an empty make-shift nest),
I’m waiting for one Pica to be met

by another. Until then, I suspect
I will stare mirror-blank at my rouge test.

Did you see no tomorrow? Why take flight,
leave me with omens and barren hindsight?