I don’t sleep with you anymore,
and this makes the rain come
in the open window
and wet the tired curtains.
The bed keeps growing and growing.
I don’t hear you calling me
for the six o’clock news,
and this makes the thrush stop singing
its three-note song.
I don’t rush to take in
your forgotten tee-shirt from the line,
the one with the red wine stain
that a hundred washes couldn’t remove,
and this makes the sun shine
until midnight.
I don’t cook you breakfast
on Saturday morning,
and this makes me perpetually hungry.
I don’t run out of patience,
or shampoo,
and this makes me wait for you
with clean hair.
I don’t argue with you about the right way
to get to our daughter’s flat in the city,
and though my way was fastest and best,
this makes me always late and always lost
no matter where I’m going.
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