You know the time of year when green is about, and building sites are cordoned with tupperware and men who drag their buzz fists through nettles. Wasps collect on window sills
There is a lady asleep on the tube, she looks like a fold up village hall chair. On her lap is a plate and on the plate is a rolled up lemon sugar pancake. Her eyelids flicker
I am in bed on your birthday and you are hungover London. I sing to the window pane, indent my weight in feathers. Thoughts balloon. The duvet forgets.
I know that it has ended. That there is a gap between then and now and some words inbetween, a tall line of privit across feelings, a development of tower blocks on Twitter,