Coffee on the circle line.
I do not drink, I just let it warm my hands and remind me of you.
You have been gone for fourteen hours and twenty seven minutes,
you had a coffee in your hand as you kissed me,
keys in the other,
vanishing into the night,
making Monday seem so far away, with every step you took.
My hands are warm, but the rest of me is frozen, drifting through the dulcet dullness of day to day life,
buying a coffee I will never drink,
taking a train from our hideaway to Tower Hill,
wandering around in a wasted daydream until it’s time to retire.
Back on the train,
my now cold coffee, in the carriage,
waiting at a red signal,
waiting for the sun to find me and then fall away with the emergence of night.
The days are so long, so listless, when you are gone.