Out in the Cold
Under our bed there are two suitcases stacked and packed and tonight,
Someone sleeping, is breathing over the back of me.
His hand, hot, hangs heavy across my thigh
and I, lie here, finding it hard to sleep
and wondering why, the fire between us no longer exists.
And why, I am left like this, reduced to
Whilst he, breathes heavy, hot, across the back of me.
His sulphur breath smells of so many years,
of so many years of one-for-the-road beers
and it feels, like this man, with his hand, hot
heavy across my thigh, is burning me,
as he dreams of the woman who is not his wife.
And I lie here, like this, aching, waiting
for the first fingers of dawn to come.