when you rush out.

Sitting alone by a fogged window
painting transparent hearts with my finger
tips. My favourite book lies on my lap
but I’ve given up on reading - the words
drift in and out like passing strangers on
a misty street.

A sudden phone call – you jump to your feet
you storm out and into the room and out
again and I find it extremely hard to
think about where you’re going and who you’re
rushing out to meet.

I try and read your face and the other
faces in the room, each one as vague as
tracing paper, I give up and look at
you putting on your coat wishing you could
read my thoughts – if you could, would you still go?

You slam the front door shut
as if to dramatize how I feel

And I place the book on the sill and watch
you drive off, wondering who spurred you
to leave in such a rush.

Would you have done the same for me?
Would you have clutched the wheel that tight?
Or would you spend more time on finding a radio frequency?

I am older now and slamming the door
has less effect than when I was
curled up on the floor wondering
what way to die next.

If you had given me more of you
I would have give you more of me
in return -

But maybe that would never
have been enough
anyway.

Oh I’m sick of over analyzing
your every move as if you are a ghost
in a slightly familiar body haunting
me as I sleep

I’ll wait up for you
just this once
like I always do.