Some nights I read your old
love letters by the reflections of
the streetlights off the window panes
and my legs twine around an invisible waist,
my lips and nose and the
unmarked skin on my neck wonder
what I'm doing, where I'm going
without you.
These are the weekend nights; I love you
more from further away, with a heavy
patch of sky in my window.
Days when I can smell your sweat and
your mussed hair spells danger, I contemplate
an illegitimate kiss, on the staircase against
the wall, Mr and Mrs Smith in the grey and
white of school uniforms and ponytails –
we'd walk away with smeared lips and
dirty eyes and
– then what?

These days and nights it's the empty walls
that remind me of the life I wanted to live
without you.