I Said We Shouldn't Kill Things

In the five years since I'd seen you, you'd grown old.
I think I've got better in that time. Smoother. You
seemed dried. Your unmatched eyes. We walked
to find the offy. More wine, there never is enough.
Sometimes I flickered back, you looked
like you did when I fell for you. One blue, one green
so beautiful. And then old again. You were both
on the edge of my bed. I see now - it was a bad idea
to sleep with you. Because inside my chest
you are as you were then. Still there, ten years younger,
soft and lovely. You took off your clothes
and my heart broke - but in the kindness of the dark
we played it out again. Nearly believed ourselves
and in the morning you were propped against my pillows
drinking tea, almost back to how you were.
And I thought if I never pulled the curtains, if I never did.