Hanging pictures

We fought that first night
wanting different walls for the grubby divan
- dragged from the back of a rusty transit
by a man wearing a greasy beanie and four day stubble -
and undressed in the dark. Side by side, not touching, just listening
to the rain hammering the glass, thrashing against the slates
and beating the heavy-hearted peonies
until they bowed their heads, ashamed

In the morning; a white-washed sky
- framed by the uncurtained window-
rinsed clean as a new start
Gulls wheel in and out of view, trying their strings against the wind
Tethered to the ground by some unseen limit

I think blue, if we ever paint this room, and I wonder if
you might put up shelves in the kitchen to collect dust and keys
and copper coins
I slip out of bed, make coffee, light a cigarette
The steam from my mug twirls like a tiny friendly ghost
enticing hope with the smell of home.
I pace out the rooms, mentally hanging pictures
but there are so many windows, so many doors and corners
and thresholds, I can't help feeling, it could still go either way