... Presumed Dead

We used to have so much to say.
Not enough hours in the day
to discuss … whatever.
Politics was always your thing.
That, and the Footsie

whereas, I was more into
who said what to whom
in the latest episode
of The Archers.
Or trying to hum a fantastic
tune I’d heard on Classic FM
or that I’d seen a green woodpecker
in our garden again.

Sometimes though,
we’d merely talk about the weather.
The way we thought
the wind might blow tomorrow
or discuss if we’d have steak
that night for dinner, or maybe
settle for a take-away.
Who we’d back as the winner
in the two-thirty at Aintree.

‘At the end of the day’,
to coin a nauseating phrase,
we seem to have run out
of conversation. As if
there’s this mega black-hole
where ‘we’ got consumed.
There’s still a me and a you,
but the ‘us’ is missing …

We share the same bed – lay
our heads on the same pillow.
Yet, when we hit the lights,
I turn to the right –
you to the left.
You bend into your silence.
I bend into mine.