I was writing at the desk by the bed
when she started talking.
She told me that she couldn’t sleep,
told me she wasn’t comfortable here.
She told me that she was just going to leave.

“Are you serious?” I said,
“Get the Hell out then.”

She told me it wasn’t like it
mattered to me either way anyway.
I turned back to the desk and
she turned her back to me
in a sign of dignified protest.

I couldn’t write after that.
They always find a way
to ruin the writing,
something they do,
something they say.
I was ******* she had
said anything at all.

“You know, why do you
gotta always pick fights?
Why can’t you just sleep
like a normal person?”

She told me I was an *******,
told me I didn’t appreciate her.
I closed the lid on the computer,
turned to stare at her;
She was putting on her shirt
and then her shoes, her coat.

“You really gonna just leave then?”

She said yes and told me
I was an *******, again,
I must not have heard her
the other time.

The door slammed with
an angry crack and afterwards
I turned back to the desk,
reopened the laptop and
wrote this poem in peace and quiet.