I get my laces twisted up;
my face, lit up
by what's shining in yours.
You say: I've got to go.
Messing with my zip, I say:
If you're going, then go,
and light a cigarette,
forgetting I don't smoke;
get up to make coffee
but the fridge is empty.
The stink from the pan
comes sweet and sickly,
like a man's last rites
when his end's come too quickly.
I wash it up, rinse off suds,
leave the window half-open
like a secret weapon, like
history.
