The sounds of London echo through the room,
though it is late and I am just in bed
the city does not sleep. It’s two o’clock
and the days heat held by the buildings
seeps from every corner of a dirty
city, the air is clammy about the room
and draws me in like the vapour of a drug,
as the alcohol of the evening,
now stale on my breath, leaves me dry
and frantic for your smile.
Though you are near you seem so far away
like the voices I hear on the street below,
laughter meant for another ear,
replaced by despair in the falling light
and I like a thief fall into shadow,
as distant sirens play their mournful tunes.
Secure in the comfort of the lone bed
I pull the covers tighter, then I think
of you downstairs and feel guilt, for I
have forced you into a cold retreat.
Maybe I shouldn’t be here in this room?
Your world is all around me pressing its
history onto my consciousness, as
I shrink from being a part of its memory.
The bed may hold secrets I have no wish
to know, though teasingly my mind won’t give
up the ghost and briefly I feel pain.
Now the darkness reveals more of you,
I can taste you on the sheets as I pull the
duvet tighter and fall into a soft sleep.
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