Cashmere curtains and drawing rooms,
Red pavements and fast cars,
You knew better and saw maroon,
To flip my page back to scars.

You're my sweater in winter;
In June I'd wear you too.
In your fabric to simmer,
like a makeshift bed ado.

You are the gin, I call vice,
the word I never knew.
You are the storyline, the advice,
They play in the news.

Covered my watch and sane,
I knew my time, my hours;
Laid on the sofa across the pane,
Just to let the open shower.

How to ignore bright eyes?
If you're the slit of ray indoors.
How to write for you?
If my ink is edged in yours,

You wrote me these words,
In my time left with you.
My dawn sets with the birds,
And I sigh as it struck TWO!