So here we are,
you driving me through the narrowest country lanes,
even the tarmac spreads herself out at speed for you.
Outside – willow trees stoop as they see you coming,
inside – fickle words settle at my boots like blossom.
The window cleaner lives on the right
you say, and
this is how you rectify our demise.
I know what you’re trying to do,
buying love with a french chef and three rosettes,
as if I’ll pin them right through to the skin of my breast!
A prized possession; I look away or this body will offer itself,
drown out whispers from bones seeped in love.
It’s getting dark as clifftops rise watching our headlights.
If I sleep early tonight, I think the world will keep spinning….