Eight pm.

Eight pm saw misery

And sorrow joining me

In my bed.

And now,

13 years later he lies

As far from me as a single inch

In the house he never spent a dime on.

At the door with sullen

Arms, a red smile at £4,

Shoes at 10,

A heart in debt.

There was no violence,

No violation on the cover,

The thumbed markings down the spine,

But that has passed again.

So still he lies,

Your body away at the neck,

A seepage of wonder from the join,

Feeling nothing but pure detachment.

But then it's you,

Who opens the door,

Picks up the phone,

Even for one syllable you're still paying.