The Sheets

I don’t like it when you touch me,

your warm hands and the

broken record phrases

that escape your lips like

candyfloss on a Friday.

Expectations of our meeting,

every time, anywhere:

tangled sheet glimpses of a

limp body wanting sleep.

And I know there isn’t a fault,

a crack in the picture

that reveals some secret ecstacy,

the realisation that I am blamed

for not saying enough.

Here we are:

lying in a single bed

with a teddy bear,

scathing the walls with sounds,

taking kisses and pretending

it’s okay.