Hands thrust in my pockets, drunk up on the bluff:
Recalling the times we spent fused sexless with lust,
When we cried thinking enough really was enough,
Of love reduced to wallet-photos and tumble-drier dust.
My heart’s like a shipyard; rusted, silent and empty,
Forgotten, like the long since gone years of sepia plenty.
Now, Alone in your rheum you pretend to be trendy,
Being dejected’s too easy for someone vintage but not even twenty.
Perhaps there’s more, or less, we should have said,
About our little faults bought out by all those hours in bed,
But pillow talk in public becomes pleasantries we spend,
And mutates into the lies on which we come to depend.

I’m glad it’s up here in a snow storm I’m standing,
Not thirty years down the line listening to what your lawyer’s demanding.