That means the day’s over
and I can stop picking fights
for now.
I nitpick. It’s a habit - like an ugly orangutang, my fingers itch to correct,
feeding off what I find.
I look you up and down,
searching for a reason not to love you. It doesn’t matter that you cleaned the whole fucking cupboard. You didn’t read my mind. You didn’t warn me enough about this fucking humid country. So it’s your fault. I haven’t come in a week.
That's your fault too.
Our stomachs were emptying themselves at both ends.
I suppose that wasn't your fault. Sleeping by the toilet doesn’t mean you don’t love me. Your eyes are sad again, and I’m writing this poem alone
in the dark on the shit-stained sofa. We don’t get to cuddle anymore,
practically middle-aged - that’s the story I sell.
But look at me here on my phone like an addict while you’re on the bed waiting to love me.