Life together began when you hooked your shirts
on the rim of my bedroom mirror — I liked
having someone mess with my neatness. We’d skirt
the notion of settling down and fly a kite
on Parliament Hill. If the walls crowded round,
the smoke too thick from each cigarette we lit,
we could take the bus and be Soho bound
then come together in calling it quits.
I don’t know where the time went, we were
too good at drifting off together, and waking up
somewhere new, on the way to getting there,
until — it seemed so abrupt —
you arrived at what you hadn’t known you wanted
while I was still in love with being disenchanted.
