and drowning in all this goodwill towards mankind
my words desert me like the last air bubbles
sparkling gleefully towards the surface like children
exempted from their dinner greens.
my garret-pallor drains away in my post-coital shower
swirling round the tiles
with the nicotine and imaginary cellulite -
whoever heard of a writer with a healthy, radiant glow?
i must misunderstand something he murmurs
dye my shiny hair a tangled, plate-hurling red
go a week without him
soak my tongue in wine
sleep hours shorter
wake up longing
dinner for one again -
all this comfort is so awkward.
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