In the cold light of day, when my cheeks are flushed, full of rage, when my body is weary, unable to pretend to be perfect, when the curtains are open, covers off, with nowhere to hide, he loves me, still.

Coffee in the morning, as i am tearful and unstable, weeping underwater, spending seventy per cent of my shower, slumped against the wall, wailing for you, grateful you are on the other side of the door, so you can’t hear me.

“All yours” is lettered along my legs, and inside my heart, as rain falls, on your freshly washed car. “Will you still love me tomorrow?” is waiting on my lips, playing on the radio, playing on my mind, and I think about how you played along, when I read your horoscope aloud, many times, using…