The Loveless

In my room
of books.
Warm radio noise.
A northern cup of tea.

And from this chair.
The October drizzle mourns,
the death of the sweet pea,
and my breath to a memory.

One exhale chokes.
A bad bone in the throat.
She was a spitter of black.
A corroder of my time.

But now across the landing.
A bath is running riot.
Soon the soapsuds will sigh.
To softly drown that loveless heart.