I noticed our
fingers: grown old,
bones and knuckles;
my face sort of
similar, hers is fuller.
We got so used to
our own ways,
hard to live to
someone else’s tune;
old habits are
comfortable.
The house is empty,
there’s no company;
I make noise to hear
noise,
talk out loud a lot.
Her fingers on the
perspex, that small distance
brought the whole
distance home;
I would have liked
to touch them.
