there's few things more tragic than a wasted condom

there’s few things more tragic than a wasted condom

deep in the night -
somewhere around 4am,
i crawl awkwardly
from the bed.

cold rubber
against the sole of my foot,
where i’ve trodden
in the evening we tried for.

we failed to manage
anything tonight.
clumsiness crept in through the open window,
and we gave up
halfway through trying.

empty rubber lying tangled
on the carpet.
like a suicide victim
at the base of a block of flats.

a reminder
of how difficult
these things
can sometimes be.

i slip back
into the silent bed.

we sleep deeply,
separately.

a mist
of resentment
clinging to the air.