I hid my chapped lips,
The last vestige of winter
Save for the wind which blew tear tripping cold.
It ruffled the watery murk, blowing it across the vauxhall bridge traffic;
Now surreal by osmosis.
Later, balm smeared my wine glass.
Merlot hid the cracks,
And you painted a similar picture;
Something cold, and murky
And we didn’t give it a name.
We didn’t stop for dessert,
And I only had myself to blame.
