layovers never last as long as you want them to

three we’s and two conjunctions later.

We shrugged up together opposite space heaters in tog 9 suits and
reeled off the presidents in order from cute
                                                           present, Wikipedia entries at eleven.

We’ve shouted down, across the table, over the fence to one another:
work’s soon 
and Netflix is on,
are you coming to bed or just giving in?
Phone now.
You may still be charged and calls aren’t recorded but I trust you won’t waste another wasted vote and lord yourself a winner again, gloat until the wheels come off like when you won the boat race last year by a furlong-
you’ve been a cox about winning ever since.

We’ve paid for this house with more than rent
and panned drainpipes for pennies,
our belt loops held together the pounds
in the form of whittled bellies
and camembert rings. 

And on that postcode lottery morning of cold showers and sharing, remember,
we won the fucking jackpot,
                                             shaved at the same time in the same mirror with what little leaked from the boiler.
It’s clearer now the condensation has settled;
that wet room in work station study - ‘or if a futon fits it’s your’s for extra four hundred quid’ - was all the vanity we could muster.
We tamed our quiffs for one another,
shaped pubes into manes, back lit the shit out of them,
we made do and blended in and were single-handedly,
responsible for deforestation and bad brows.
We played scoreless scrabble in the dark and that’s how you left the house.

And the dark matter of that leaving happened whilst the universe cooled slightly
as clothes don’t go cold immediately.
There’s still a little of you leftover heaped in the corner of this rented room keep we’d hoarded home
and now I don’t know what a great lover is
or will be.