8 a.m.
An excuse to leave the bed
Leaving behind your warm ghost
But no hands to hold as I rise afterwards
Your hands - as an excuse -
Hold the cold mug, raise it to your lips
An excuse to not share the mug
To share a last kiss
Those hands, opening the front door
Your feet walk out - a mumbled goodbye
Being late is always a good excuse
I remain alone at the table
The ghost has left the room and entered my thoughts
That soft gaze never meets mine
Like it used to, after I stopped being a stranger
Am I becoming, once again,
A stranger?
Your smile, now a straight line
There are
Casual texts, half hearted laughs
You start forgetting to leave your shirts behind
Remember you have dinner with a friend
And your favourite chicken
Grows cold with each passing waiting second
You don’t moan as much as you used to
The once tinted sparks have faded
And my bedroom floor grows cold
With each expecting second
Of stumbling feet, thrown jeans
Crumpled sheets as two bodies meet
But bodies turn away on their sides
When nights only become about sleeping
And sleeping becomes forgetting
Forgetting to remember I’m still there
And, your hands,
Now clinging onto a cold metal bar
As a train pulls your further away
Has forgotten what warmness once felt like
Laced fingers slipping, loose, distant
Opposite of our lips
Tight, closed in, nothing to say
No reason to open and fall on each other
Only a reason to fall, away
And away you go each morning
Excuses ready
Love has been set in stone, put on hold
Because hold my hand, you do not
The past finds itself, repeating itself
And we are strangers once again
Warmness has become
A stranger
But in the desperate hours
Of early morning excuses
The ghost of it lingers
In the spot you slept in
