the sound of floors above and below: barefeet whispering by on cold london
linoleum answering the metallic call of the telephone or a dripping faucet.
following the raised pattern with my fingertips, delighting in the damask
mountains and valleys carved in vinyl and velvet on the wall. at two am on a
sunday you come slowly and soon as i coo in your ear and sip, without care,
from a mug of cold builders tea. the ear, the ear, that wicked counselor
occasionally reaching out to touch my hand but not quite.

in the library i write your name over and over on a small piece of paper. i
tell myself that this is a confirmation & secret it into my pocket as i step
out and onto the street. i stumble along in the sleek sun searching for
anything to take the bitter taste of december from my mouth.