355, Flat 2, at 21
I remember, sat tracing spirals
with a heavy foot as she chopped
courgette, hissing from the pan,
“Wack abit more garlic in love”
Quote notes tacked on the wall,
Silly ash droppings on the floor,
"Must sweep that before mum comes”
“Who stole my last slice of bread?”
Flame haired flatmate running late and
running out.
“Yes it does matter!”
(I found maggots in the bin one day,
Telling a previous lay to keep schtum,
And sorry it’s a mess)
The vases, always filled with flowers;
Smelt off, rotting or not, they were there,
Proof of thought at least,
Smoke alarms certainly working,
Sips of corked wine,
Wondering why “I think it tastes fine!”
Oh regret at 2am, too much gin,
“That’s me done with spirits now”
after sobbing over lovers, pouring
ourselves on the kitchen table.
Open windows.
“What will we do when we leave?”
It was a horrible thought!
Instead we drank, cooked,
Traipsed $20 budget shops home,
danced sticky
soles upon muggy lino,
Noses, filled with Yankee, last
weekends defeat and
until we left an endless repeat of
“Don’t tell anyone”
“And sorry it’s a mess"
<Deleted User> (9882)
Sat 13th Sep 2014 21:31
more please!x