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...
Tuesday 30th March 2021 9:40 am
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
Saturday 9th January 2021 2:53 pm