forgive my mood, walking through wind and
rain to visit the house i used to but still do
lodge in. this house is a graveyard of
unopened letters and something savoury
squashed into the carpet, decomposing,
like something living died here.
these four corners hold my walk-in wardrobe
of dirty clothes and lost hours spent sitting at
my desk. coming back only to feed the cat
and shave my legs whilst you keep what you
want at arm's length. i'm a house guest.
two sets of keys in my pocket, i divide the time
unequally; visiting you on weekdays and staying
until saturday. we collect bottle caps and leave
messages on the fridge. i do the washing up.
alone in someone else's house feels homely,
sinking into the sofa watching evening tv shows.
dipping hands into hot water cures my cold mood,
cooking for you in the tiny kitchen whilst two cats weave
around my legs, forgetting about going back. beneath
blankets our feet mingle, and you say something sweet
before falling into sleep. i could belong here.