If I ask you whilst our sun
drops – dripping its bleed
into a brown-loathed sea
what the worst words are.

You will perhaps shrug your
shoulders – look at your shoes.
It’s not, I don’t love you.
It’s not even, I hate you.

I will say the worst words –
when all is red and rusted –
when the tide retreats to reveal 
the shells of us will be, I don’t care.

Perhaps you’d tighten those laces.
                                                     Then 
                                                            quietly
                                                                     walk 
                                                                           away.