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.