In the old place, as you snatched your gaze away from me
I saw our futures in the furniture behind your head,
carved from antithesis, set in stone;
you rolled your eyes across an over- stretched conversation
and years flexed and flew.
While I pirouetted into semi dark,
you stuck your colours to the nearest domestic lamp
and remained stoically moth-like. I hardly dare knock
at our last closed door, fearing the beat of distressed wings,
but I come with fresh baked anodyne,
and if you answer, it will make this new morning blossom.