Pressed in, secreted in the space
above your wardrobe, I am reading
Each of your stories is different
On the 67 bus, after an argument
you’ve handed me conciliation
the truth on yellowed paper
Between your mattress, and the bed
my hands have stolen
crinkle crushed romances and confessions
Huddled…Bitter, sweaty, separate. Cold
on our fumbled Chester expedition
you’ve risen and retrieved them
Childish..I strain not to criticise
Intimidated, I’m quietly awed
I’ve never read a word
Your stories were of this weeks ‘him’
of falling off fences
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