I made a plan.
A foolproof regime to surround myself with things
as delightful as ripe, red tomatoes bursting under laughing skin.
A perfectly plausible, markedly intelligent
I lined them one after another,
in a careful, well-thought-out sequence;
Books, burning questions, Earl Gray and full cream concoctions,
sad stories for bed, classic rock for Wednesday next-
no cracks, no slips, fucking perfection.
It’s two a.m.,
our bed is still soaking wet from before you left
and on it my plan has turned to glorious wilderness
of the way your arms weighed on my breasts.
Eight more days to forget.
Image – Michael Drummond