When the rain gets heavy we stay under covers
Looking to ride out the day under cotton
Your small face and palms resting on my chest
Prying for answers to questions too afraid to ask
The green rug cluttered with socks, burnt matches, earrings
A clumsy trail of sex and bitter arguments
Your jeans keep the chair warm, heels hidden behind the door
Don’t forget to take them with you when you leave
In the morning we are thirsty and crave carbs
French toast and coffee, head back to bed
We are without shirts on top of one another
Why don’t you write songs about me?
The voice is yours – small, defiant, inquisitive.
The stillness of the moment
like the pelting of thick rain on cheap glass.
My eyes are distracted by the spider chandelier.
a tug of chest hair.
Am I not inspirational enough for you?
My hands dig fast fast through her hair now
pull her head towards mine, kiss hard, let go…
It would be one of the last few times-
The words come when they want to.
In a few months she will wake up to me and leave.
And it will take months, months
To put this all into words.