I went to our home at five thirty,
as arranged.
It stank of 'not my house,' and
my things were shyly poking from behind
your things.

Your mum, I guess,
had made a huge, huge collage
of pictures: of nine years of you, your family, our son,
but not me.

I was leaking out the cracks in the doors and walls.
My son would see nothing of me.
I gathered what I could and left.

Shall I compare thee to a cup of tea?
Thou art less lovely and less temperate.
Your voice winds do shake my tranquillity,
And fair attentions are too hard to get.
Sometimes too hot your critical glare shines,
And often is your vicious tongue untrimmed;
And every sip of love in time declines,
With swift return to lover's lounge much dimmed.
Your sharp heat shall never cool to comfort,
And all sugar in the world won't sweeten,
The bitter beating of your blackened heart;
Nor shall the greed of your soul be beaten.
As long as men can drink a cup of tea,
So long lives my hate and disgust for thee.

Roll the windows down
Because it's getting harder to breathe
With your mouth on my neck
And my hips on yours

Roll the windows down
Because it's fogging up now
And it's getting harder to see
Who's coming our way

Roll the windows down
So they can hear me scream
As you push me down
And I pull you in

I live for these stolen nights
With your arms, strong, around me
And your kisses, hungry, to feed me
Your voice, ecstasy, to calm me

But daylight is coming
It's too soon, I know.

We have to roll the windows up
I can't let them see me
In this stranger's car