Drum and bass

I've made the bed and bathed and tidied up
and while I'm waiting for you
listen to the languid, rhythmic
rap and rattle of the drum and bass.
To wistful words sung by some girl
that tell of loneliness and pain and loss
Music that, last time,
gave metre to our loving.

She spins our story
round the empty room.
The synthesiser echoes - plaintive, mocking -
the beating in my head
your lilting voice.

And so I wait and watch the phone
for you might ring at any time and say
'I'm working late so I can't make tonight'
or worse,
'He's home and I can't leave.'

I twitch the curtains,
furtive, like some nosy neighbour,
hide behind them,
watching for you,
making sure that I'm not seen to wait.
Sad bastard.
Smoke another fag.
Soon his car will be outside.

And now it's here.
And now you're here.
Your knuckles rapping at my door
speed up trhe tempo,
supply that missing beat.
You always do.

And calm and smiling I admit you.

But already I have reached the other side
of waiting,
and even while you're here
have quickly slipped to that time
when you've left.
In telescopic moments you're
anticipated, here and now and gone
all in one breath.

The song plays on repeat like you and I.
Unchanging, recognised, familiar,
measuring the time I've waited
in three minute pleas.
The rap and rattle, so imperative,
emotionless,
approximates your distance
and I look forward once again
to your coming and your going.