With a bleary sigh, you rise from the bed

Hair unintentionally windswept, you raise your wuthering heights

 

The chilled wooden floor pre-empted

By the inviting womblike slippers

The staircase awaits you

 

The kettle filled

The mug cleaned and waiting

With expectant teabag

 

To the door, for the milk

On the doormat, (a woven thatch affair)

Lies a black cuboid of folded interflora cardboard

Two bottles of red-top

And the Herts Advertiser

But you are lactose and news intolerant this morning

 

A single red rose

If only a poet was present

Your mind travelled like a narrative to Morocco

 

There, amidst a bustling market

Your sweetheart, heady with the aroma of travel

Pined for your beauty

As you hold it to your chest

Aching for his presence

Vases hadn’t crossed your mind

 

* * *

 

He yawns and stretches, sleep in his eyes

And scans the ruffled zone

As she stirs, and tangles the bedclothes

A single string of beads circles her neck

 

Caught up with foreign bodies

He thinks of you sitting alone under the apple tree

A guilt rose

Say it with flowers

 

 

 

 

 

illustration: Kitty Parkinson

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