You've already left.

537 miles North of me, of us.

I'll ruffle up to join you in four (agonising) weeks 

but to my unconcerned shame, 

I'm too sad to sleep in that bed without you, too ungoverned.

Nostalgia, even the warm kind, is too much feeling for me.

Something about it has always made my lipids curdle 

and an unpleasant tickle cloud in my brain.

The street ou...

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my partner says

I can’t write anymore poetry.

until I take out the bins

complete that assignment 

(for which I’m paying thousands for the privilege)

and preferably have a shower

not out loud 

but I hear it in his sighs

and the way he closes the cupboard doors

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