She sits on a step with a book in her lap
and water from the tap in a re-used bottle.
She reads and she writes and she thinks as she types
she’s got air and space, there’s a trace of some pain
but it’s not out for show, most people don’t know
it’s under the collar, real undercover stuff,
and she had enough long ago, but doesn’t mind.
It’s not all the time, hiding’s second nature,
so butterflies and landscapes litter the words
and she lives far away, with so much to say
and here she is safe, because everyone can see.
He sits on the sofa with a letter in his hand
and drink in a can left-over from last night.
He snores and he sighs and he screams as he cries,
he feels angry and bored, but she’s not here anymore
so he can’t let it out, when no one’s about
it’s only allowed when it’s just one on one.
He said he was done, done after the first time
but she would just wind him up, and she runs out
so he’s done for the final time, no more chances,
she’s probably gone far away, she always had too much to say,
and he’s living in regret, because everyone might see.