Ennui

Once again the sound of magpies hunting fill my head with images of daylight and picnics we took under ash trees on top of itchy blankets I know you only read those books for me to make me feel safe in having something to say when the conversations turned to salaries and mortgages or maybe that's unkind. Maybe you just wanted to understand me better when the four ninety-nine red wine reaches me I taking about the poems I'm writing grape glazed eyes stare, squinting through the sun, trying not to smile. They move on when we are alone again we still pretend I lie about the friends I met for coffee and you tell me I look beautiful I wonder if you know the way we sleep I hope not and you've never asked why I crawl out of the sheets when sleep has taken you I sleep on the floor and slip back beside you just before you wake we never mention doctors or pills and you know not to hug me too tight I make tea for both of us even though we don't drink it. It's hard to shake off the words our mothers said about a cup curing anything when the birds are still I open the window and think of flying to have a body light enough to break free of the mind I take my first lungful if air but you reach out and hold me where my wings should be (they're broken now) and I realise I'm not the only one who pretends to be asleep you wrap me up like old glass in soft blankets slip another book off my bedside table into your bag and don't cry until you've shut the door