She appears in the window.
She appears to be watering the plant.
I need to be in your hair
he whispers into her ear.
His tongue drains the room of light
pitched with the fever of
is there someone else
is there is there
In his voice she can hear
a leaf loosening from its stem.
Around him begins to lose its colour.
His jersey slung across the back of a chair
the photograph Blu-tacked to the wall
of he and she locked arm in arm
and on the table those cheerless chicken
wings flailing in their marinade.
Let’s get take-away she says.
I need to be in your hair.
