eleven months

PRESENT: fog

He is a morning in winter,

Cosy, with steam clouding up the insides of windows 

And tendrils mazing the roads.

He is a speckled navy jumper,

A tight jean, a brand shoe,

A flapjack and a free-from packet of crisps.

He is a silence I can bear,

Veined hands tapping, legs still

Unlike mine, infected with the rhythm of his work.

He is that smile.

That smile.

He is a setting sun,

Blushing the attic violet through a makeshift curtain, 

Removing our sight so everything is just

His thigh and 

My calf and 

My arm and 

His head and

A pillow. A wall between us that nobody wants to break. 

Except maybe we both do.