The Blanket. Poem by Peter Vealey

I saw the blanket
Damp and clean green in the bath.
Washed for the first time in ages.
With the patch,
I had sewn on to cover.
Your getting over me.
Skinned to the bone
Of loss.
You were here
Writing messages (on the patch)
One afternoon.
That you wanted me back,
And....
I just wondered,
Did nothing.
But realised
I had loved you
Very much.
Cruel was I?
To think and not
Feel
Was the past
So far
From both of
Us,
To make it a
Redundant moment,
Anyhow?