Your breasts in the bath gathering suds while
I'd mash the mash, stir the gravy and sing along to
‘I Love to Love' by Tina Charles;
Then clink to us, on a sunday,
‘To us’, just because.

Not once, to us, did it all appear TOO loving,
Not in the bath together, soft soaping the 
weekend away, not when you would wake me,
crawl into bed naked with pubes I would joke-
looked like ‘a fucking scouring pad’ 
then have the best sleep I've had in a long while
no, not once did I think

'We care too much’, well, I suppose we didn’t; we loved
London too much and the boys that kept us there.
So when we finally left and packed our feelings away,
Sellotaped tears shut, I never once had to say:

Eleanor - I don’t love you too much, though it
hurts like I do, I love you just enough and that
house, your breasts, the bathroom, our
indecision, and lack of charm for anyone else but
each other - are scenes and words just pointless.

Because all this reminds me 
though things end, I can dance with the memory of
Tina Charles and your red wine tongue on a Sunday 
and nothing, is as indestructible as that.