We lie in bed as individuals
And rise from the dead each morning.
Each time you will forget yourself
And then you will forget me.
Your days consist of obituary-searching and the BBC.
You come to a climax of work shifts.
There is a sense of love somewhere
In the myriad of faces.
You drink tea in the afternoon. Eat nothing.
Your secrecy blinds me.
Guided only by a thought, you walk to the train.
Now you eat like a starved cat.
At home there is no one. I am not there.
Between your eyelashes; silence.