The front door is locked shut
by the weight of paper:
free wine and cheap insurance drown
letters from long-forgotten acquaintances,
half-forgotten friends.

Inside, a swirl of muddied paint
cloaks frayed floorboards that reach out
to clasp the cold iron grate
with empty-air kisses. Twists
of paper and peeling crisp packets spill
over into the gap
stretching between us and you.

I can almost scrape back
to the memories you left in this place.
My fingers scrabble at the damp,
discoloured plaster that peeks out
from behind wallpaper sails
but I can gain no purchase
on your dreams.

Plaster dust drives deep
under the tattered condescending fingernail
that I run along the edge
of the turquoise bathroom suite guarding
the entrance to your bedroom.
The outside toilet beyond my comprehension.

In the quiet of a frost-ridden January day,
beyond the grind of traffic;
above the bass, screwing
through the walls from next door
and beneath the endless
estate agent patter, I fancy I can hear
the burgundy velvet softness of your tongue
against his skinny yellow-flared tones
in discourse, disagreement, reconciliation;
the delicate balance of a shared life.