cutthroat bed-warmer
i warned you.
to underhandedly procure
the duvet
in a dubious midnight heist
is a violation
of the “Pillow-Talk Three Truce”.
there are no second chances
in this
quilted coalition you concocted.
by daybreak, after a night of unrepentant tickling, kissing, or any some such
sleep disturbancing,
perhaps my arms will be laid down
in a show of piety.

to be the
little spoon by the afternoon.

the name I’m calling in the night
is the ghost of yours.
an apparition
wraith-like, transparent
against my lips.
whispered in the witching hour
alone in the dark,
to summon something
or you.

floor to ceiling windows
stacked two upon two
capillaries bursting with office work.

neon signs and patina streaked doors
opening up valves at lunch times
Pret A Manger bloodletting.

final call at The Angel
heralding the end of the work week
teams of cleaners flush the system
to restart for the following Monday.

calling a lost lover
to begin to head on over
this bedroom was only a boarding gate
and this bed your layover.