Left her crying in the driveway
after forcing her way through the window,
feigned a car crash, a sudden death,
so I could sleep alone and warm
without discussion across the pillow.

Drank whiskey and coke,
distant and remote-
noted her painted nails,
her short skirt, her knotted shirt,
shaved legs
in anticipation
for something I could not give her.

Made an excuse to sing the blues
until the pills took their hold
and muffled my strings
in a tranquilised series
of half-toned grins
and yawns that sing
the death of another evening.

Would rather take to art
than any flesh, bone, or heart
that bleeds upon my feeling,
would rather cling to a verse,
a muddied crime, suit, or hearse,
that leaves me high and dry
and staring up at the ceiling.

Left her nursing her wounds
whilst I search for an excuse
why I cannot love without leaving.
Left her alone in her bed
a feast of wine and bread
that has no taste,

that has no rhyme or reason,
for why I keep ploughing the field,
for why I keep moving through the seasons.

There is no meaning to my motion,
no depth to my frantic gathering of breath,
no distilled calm, nor consequence to each brief,
suffering emotion.

I am just a ladder to climb.
I am no stairway to heaven.