Out in the Cold

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 

languorous self-manipulation.

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.

Copyright©TaliaHardy 2012

Photography Katie Brady
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13 thoughts on “Out in the Cold

  1. As usual, you have packed a lot into this poem; every word serves. The people, like the suitcases, are ready and waiting to go, even if the travel is by dream.

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