You were here, baby.

I dreamed of you— four o'clock at night—
when I didn't take in enough caffeine
to excite my punctured narcoleptic bed.

The only one silly enough
to shift my keys from the dusty bottom shelves
to the centre of our dining table
was you.

I paused the life outside—
like a game— but I saw our keys
on the doormat.

And that was you, too.

That was you telling yourself— and me—
that we're through, that no more wine rivers
can save us from this.

We lie even when we're drunk.

So I threw wine bottles out of the window,
so I picked up the keys and let
body rape mind.