hungover and calm
watching bare townhouse walls
turn green with May morning
I page through my address book
and need not to see your name under ‘K’
need not to imagine your new place
new carpet, new kitchen
need to pretend you’re as miserable as I am
alone at 6 a.m. on a Sunday
sleeping naked, pillow pressing
lines into your shoulder
the throat cut out of your alarm
a half-empty glass of white wine
on the bedside table
(red, of course, reminds you of me)
a book of short stories open
face-down on the duvet
your lips chapped and frowning
as you dream of missing a bus
fucking up at a job interview
breaking a mirror and living
every bad-luck year
backwards
or you roll over
on a Sunday, 6 a.m.
throw an arm over a slim back
drag dumb fingers through dark hair
three feet away from two empty glasses
and a bottle of red
the short stories are shelved
dusty, alphabetized
your new address book is empty under ‘S’
and you smile in a dreamless sleep
as your walls turn green
with May morning