You said this,
that I gave more than you wanted
that I surrounded you,
smothered you with plumped up pillows
and forced you into swaddling clothes,
too tight for a grown man.
You were wrong.
And now I wear bedsocks to stave off a chill that
has nothing to do with barometric pressure,
mocked by a too big duvet in an aftershave scented bed.
I take my usual route and stare at the downturned faces
of busy people who don’t wish to look my way,
no matter, they haven’t realised how special I am.
I’m here to win you back.
I’ll come at you with perfumed cards.
Accost you with sugary tokens.
Stab at you with flowered stems.
Your letterbox is your eyes and ears
and I’m jamming myself into it,
waiting for you to come home.