Not that the paint isn't there, not that the carpet doesn't matter

When we're lying here and you're smoking: your smell. How it's just so wonderful to me; where does it come from. It's like it comes from out of you: could you even stop it if you wanted to. And I'm not smoking. The sheets are on the floor around us and we're undressed with my mind.
I want to take so much. I probably take nothing, I probably take nothing at all. Although the time when it was raining hard in June and we decided to make something of the day. Did that happen? When we walked against the pavement, bruising it, and held hands under umbrellas. Eventually we were so wet it didn't matter anymore so we threw our umbrellas to the floor and stamped in puddles. We weren't but we could have been wearing bright red wellies. It would have fit. We stamped into a park space with soaked grass and swampy and spent at least an hour burying the flowers that grew there. By the time we had finished it was late, we were tired and it was time to go. We dug the holes with our hands and put the flowers in deep, you threatened to murder butterflies. We were working. Next to you it should be warmer but the things you've said come back too strong -What. Fucking. Us?
I want to stand at the window like you do. Looking down at the streets but I don't know how to tell you how it is that I've stumbled, how it is that I'm lonely. All the possibilities, all the possibilities and it came to this.
-I'll make you coffee, you say and you go
I'll take from you. You're not complete, you'll see. I don't mean that. What a beautiful bum to watch disappear behind a door.
I can hear you tinkering in the kitchen, getting the pots and pans and moving them for what you're doing.
You're still naked - you must be. Even though no-ones watching you can act like that's true.
I close my eyes and I think of you toiling beneath me. Of how I'd like to catch your eye and keep it. It was like that a week, maybe a month, ago and it felt so much like we'd been torn apart, both of us, in the chest and what was inside didn't matter because it was ours and it was touching.
On the way home we splashed and ran only sometimes. We spun round corners, we spun round trees, we sat on parked bicycles with you on my lap dinging the bells. The rain came and came. You were on my lap.
My own stench is overbearing ' you can't know what you do to me when you lie with me. You can't be that cruel.
Take my hand, hold it. Throw kisses onto me, onto my back, neck and chest. Spin me like a top. Whisper your day and tell me you're done with these drugs. Tell me I'm enough because I was lying; I won't take anything, I don't take a thing.
I can still hear you tinkering and I put the covers back around me, from the waist down. I wipe my fingers through the hollows of my collar bones; how they are similar to yours.
I didn't tell you at the time but one of those flowers, I unburied and took it away in my pocket. I don't know what type it is, I still have it though and maybe sometime I'll show it to you and you can tell me. It's a nice flower though; sometimes I look at it when you're not around or you're high. It makes me think nice, although it's all crumbly with age so I have to beware. I am beware. I am precious.
With you out the room making breakfast, moving around in the kitchen from the counter to the sink and to the fridge, making the food you make so well. My body is pressing into the mattress. You make pancakes so well and then hardly eat a thing. Food wasn't mentioned, I know, you are away from me, I know that too, but still, as you bend to take from the refrigerator you make me tingle. My body is supine and it's stagnant. You are reaching up high to take down crockery, I think, you lift onto tiptoes, you are on tiptoes. The pillows. You close the cupboard door without a sound, you look down at what you're doing. My hair grows, my nails grow, I can map your movements around that little room, I can map your body, I can map you naked. The kettled is boiled and you boil it again. The second time it's boiled it has less oxygen and that's why it makes worse drinks. You can dance like your body is a clew. I don't want this. Around the room you move, everything is on the edge of where it lies, it would be so easy to be clumsy and knock the things off.
I don't know why we buried those flowers, or why I unburied one, but I kept it and I like that.
When you come back in, my drink in your hand, and you sit on the edge of the bed on the covers and you brush hair from your face and from my face. When you ask me Is it hot? Is it too hot? When your hand rests on my body. Lightly. When you light another cigarette and you're careful the ash doesn't fall on me or the bed and that you breathe smoke away, mostly, from me. When you sit and I lie and you ask me what do I want to do today and you tell me what you want to do, looking at me while you tell me, tucking hair behind my ears, moving your hand down my body. When you kiss me and you bite my lip a little, when you kiss me and you bite my lip a little. When you take the coffee from my hand and put it on the side next to us and the bed. When the morning light goes out and when you come in and you do these things, I won't cry. I won't cry.
The door is prone. You are not here. I take ash from your ashtray and put it on my tongue because it tastes of almost nothing.