In between clouds of feathers,
a heavy weight flattens your pillow
and the warm sweetness of oud on skin
escapes through that window you never fixed.
I have not brewed coffee in months,
nor found a home in another bed
yet I still wake to the shuffle of feet in our grey-tiled kitchen,
imagine you’re in last night’s boxers
with an unbrushed mouth that someone else is kissing.
The window is shut,
orange curtains drawn
yet dust finds its way
into the drawers I have reserved for you.
Help me fix the cracks
so we can be.