I thought that maybe you’d like to stay the night,
not in my bed,
never slipping between sheets,
that are wary of you,
but in the garden,
awake all night,
stretching and slurring to keep yourself here for a little longer.
You asked me why,
and I pretended not to hear the question,
not to understand the intrusion,
pouring you another drink,
walking all the way around the kitchen,
to avoid your waiting hand,
that longs to hold me,
the way you used to.
I’m used to feeling disappointed,
deep in my heart,
and the rest of me.
My right hip is the worst,
shuddering and screaming when she is touched,
even just when I get dressed,
brushing past her by mistake,
because she is distressed by the memory of you.
I thought that maybe I should tell you to go home,
but I knew that wouldn’t do,
because I’d just be in the garden,
listening to my sobbing right hip,
the faraway fevered cry of your hand,
that record I wrote for you,
that I always meant to play you,
but never found the time to.
No,
it wouldn’t do,
so maybe,
you’d like to stay the night,
not in my bed,
never slipping between sheets,
that shielded you from the many nights I cried,
but in the garden,
where we wed,
inside my head.
