The past us

would’ve clawed at sheets and clung to skin.

Not content until the scent was merged

and all was bare.


Now the bed is not cold

but burns as we pull away irritated

by touch and held hands only

tug and nip;

so we turn away.



The past us,

We would’ve talked this through.

Crossed-legged on your bed at 2:15pm on a Sunday.


But now ‘your goddamn leg hair is just so fucking itchy and

why do you look at me like that?

I’m getting a drink.’



The past us,

They would kiss despite the clumsiness

and laugh through, embrace through, love through;

try to keep on.


But slopes slip down and so do mouths,

do I miss you now we’re gone?