I’m not sure who is more surprised.
You, finding yourself blacker
than realised,
from the shock of neon bulb.
My hand wavers on the switch,
the other drooping, spilling
cold tea dregs down my ankle.
You twitch a foot.
A tiny entrapper of lives, you seem
an unlikely Iago in your current
cowering state. Of course, I become aware,
your webs are set in secret.
A pin-prick witness to the drunken
burning of toast, V-signs flicked
to housemates through thin walls.
Your stories can be stretched to fill shadows.
Of kisses, pressed up against the fridge,
knocking alphabet magnets onto the tiles.
Perhaps you even know the whereabouts
of the missing letter ‘S’.
And so, an uneasy truce forms,
wordlessly. An understanding, thin as silk.
I retreat into the living room,
to the colour of Eastenders and quiet resent.
Back in the dark you head for
the sliver of safety beneath the sink
or perhaps under the recycling box,
hidden alongside last night’s bottles.
And in return, I put off making tea
for ten or so minutes, hum along
to the tune of the kettle, not letting
my eyes slip downwards.
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