En Suite

You have taken to bathing at odd times of the night.
Pearls floating on your collarbones,
salmon-coloured stars,
you call this your Sunday best,
white moths spinning at the windows.
Dripping before the mirror,
becoming art.

Every night you become the slim nude
unstitching herself of the bathwater
on two glossed legs.
Each candle light blooming gold
along your wingless spine.

Tonight, the bathroom unoccupied,
the moon’s soapy eye at my window.
Like habit, you haunt me,
bath-wrinkled and serious,
shuddering in a damp towel.
Your talcum imprint snowed onto my skin.

Birthday

This year,
I sit on your side of the bed,
not having the heart to remove your pillow
stuffed with your talk.
Champagne bottle gagged with a cork.
July hurls light at the window,
shadows dropping like silks to the floor
and the bedroom door
where months have pooled.
A year where they chained up the sun.
Slim figure of one.

This year,
I will not send clowns to your doorstep.
I will not be at the table
flapping your card like a wing,
trying to sing,
taking champagne to the garden, watching stars
unstitch like a waterfall,
kissing you full on the lips.
Your hands on my hips.

This year, I shall pour myself a drink at midnight
and drink to you all the same.
You’ve forgotten my name.

This year,
I abandon my phone at midnight,
fling your pillow to the floor.
Scratch your name off the door.
I am not the name rising in candle-smoke,
the balloon rising up from your hand.
I understand.
This year, I will drink to you until
the champagne and cider renders me ill.
And maybe next year,
I will drink to you still.