You've already left.

537 miles North of me, of us.

I'll ruffle up to join you in four (agonising) weeks 

but to my unconcerned shame, 

I'm too sad to sleep in that bed without you, too ungoverned.

 

Nostalgia, even the warm kind, is too much feeling for me.

Something about it has always made my lipids curdle 

and an unpleasant tickle cloud in my brain.

 

The street outside is lockdown-still. Void of sounds, organismic anyway,

though perhaps some background 

radiation.

Oh, and the rumbling slink of rogue cars that shouldn't be out. 

Rakish intruders on the already irascible scene.

 

Stumbling across his tooprettyfriends online,

by typing their full names into the search bars,

I drift, 

probably for the last time 

into the stiff-on-the-sofa living room half-sleep, bathed in prickly urban light,

howling inwardly at myself in the semi-dark gloom, steeped in ultrasound and LED brights

but no comfort moon.

The indent of a deep and almost perfect absent circle leering over me.