For weeks, darling

I’ve let the lonely in each morning at 8 a.m.
and fed it pieces of my sleep, all the parts
that have escaped me in twisted sheets.
I’ve lived on tea and toast without jam
and suffered sore knees on Sundays, I spent
a grey afternoon turning pillowcases inside
out, to rid them of the memory of your head.
I’ve dried all my dishes the right way up
so they take too many hours to drain, I lose
myself in journal entries from the last week
of June. I’ve stopped reading the paper, even
the headlines make fun of my melancholy,
darling, but I play the Amelie soundtrack
most days, and have had sex just twice, and only
then to feel guilty. Each time I think of you
at the beginning, then remember to forget
myself at the end, if only to unravel once
and feel the pull again; it feels quite modern,
you’d be proud of me, I know, but afterwards,
lying still, I stare at the sheeting rain and count
the number of baked bean tins left in the pantry,
and pickles in jars, like tiny briny penises.

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