It was Sunday.

 

Crashing out my door and into your palms. It was intentional –

you had a coat done up tightly around you

keeping me out and

keeping you safely inside, only just.

 

Carlton. Young bones rattling around

the pub like loose matches.

You slipped in beside me like a secret,

your blue scarf keeping the words in.

Keeping my face out.

 

It was Sunday.

You leant against my stool like you needed to.

I couldn’t blame you.

You came to find me as if I had stolen

your tongue and had it in my handbag.

You came to find me like I knew you would,

to hand me your liver,

and your lungs that should know better,

 

so I took them.

 

It was Sunday.

I think we’d already decided.