Glue

Glue

I haven’t had one original thought here.
There are too many ghosts
since you asked.
The history of our crockery makes me tired
and when I look at our stupid beige carpet
all I see is skin flakes from lodgers past.

Our minimal living is not down to Swedish design,
it’s a lack of motivation on your part and mine
we don’t know how to decorate
because we’re reeling from the shock
and the peeling of the paper
happens despite us
as we try and take stock.

This is not the idea of cohabiting our parents spoke of.
There are voices in the walls
there are people in the pipes
and when we kiss,
they whisper ‘skinflints’
and laugh at the lists of coveted items
I made for you to lift from skips.

We drift.
Quickly, and I’m furious with us as if
we could stop this.
We drift.

Until we’re two strangers who share sheets,
meet inexplicably to eat,
then beat retreats to blow smoke into lilac streets.

So.
I’ve borrowed books from ghosts to read you away
I’ve smuggled bottles into nooks to drink you away
I’ve fought battles with thoughts to think you away

and now you’re cast away
six inches behind bricks and plaster away.

In parallel rooms we stick bits to sheets of card
fix things
build collages
of mixed up images
to make up
for the pieces of us that have come un-stuck.

When you finally poke your head around the door I’ve closed
I’m contrary as a rescue cat,
ears flicked in expectant pose.
But your eyes fix only on the shadows
as my head twists round to gaze at you.
You, who only came in to say -
when you’re done with it, can I borrow that glue?