Poetry


I was baptised with dead saffron and don’t know 
what simple games of your childhood sound like.


I could roll the window down to let out your scent, your presence that lingers here beside me like all the bad choices I’ve made.

Like every other time, I couldn’t crawl into your first verse or your second, your bridge or your chorus.

One slip is all it takes for this night of loneliness to culminate in a crescendo of muffled moans and suppressed sighs.

You would be pleased to know that the evidence has been removed.

You can do it. Accept that he isn’t upper class diplomatic or a refugee of war or lover turned killer.

I take you like a paper doll and crumple you.