We don’t tidy up after ourselves, as we should.
Love me afterwards.
We leave our clothes in a Cubist pattern on the floor.

The days dribble over themselves, the hands of the clock unturn.
The only thing we have is what we can learn.
I cross my legs, you go to close the door.

We end up counting minutes, counting ourselves.
Here I am. One, two.
We coo like complaining doves, tell each other it’s not love,
Tell each other the world is not real or true.

We know what we are not, but words can’t describe what we are.
Sentences can’t be moulded to what we have made.
It’s still Spring; everything’s still new.
I wish you hadn’t gone so far, I wish that you had stayed.