Of course I survived that Sunday afternoon.
Of course I made it to that dreaded Monday-morning.
An overcast afternoon as I set off, four-seventeen,
rain droplets thumping against my umbrella which shrieked with terror.
Pathetic fallacy, the foreshadowing of what was to come.
Your house, on the top of that hill, an uphill climb
with an even worse descent back home.
Crawling under your duvets, suffocated in love more than you can imagine yet an hour later, and the comfort of warmth and shelter is stripped away from me, like one would strip a bed of it's duvet-cover.
Five-forty-five, as the clouds thicken and rumble with excitement, shuffling sheepishly down the stairs,
I pick up my coat and various belongings.
Your dog whimpers, but he's not as sad as I am.
Maybe this time I'll leave, and won't come back.