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My sister is asleep next to me
and I can’t, despite, well, everything,
the vape isn’t helping, but –
I’m doing my emails on a Friday night/
Saturday morning, lilac streaming in
through the window. Blinds would be a good idea,
but I enjoy this exposure. Here I am,
curled and compelled,
propelled to reply to recipients long asleep
till Monday morning. Nothing is urgent,
not even leaving, the other little death, and yet --
This will not be a poem about emails,
rather, and I knew it, was about you,
It's you, it’s you, it’s all for you
has been in my head for days now, weeks,
or before time, on repeat, it squats with me
in the pub toilet. My sister rolls over,
farts. We sleep back-to-back, for coolness
from each other; same womb, different time.
It’s been a year since you were here,
in my bed, this exact mauve light,
you used to roll over and hold me, a seatbelt
from tomorrow, which gathered, a yanked duvet
rushing towards us.