There were rooms we wrote our history,
rooms marked by arguments, cigarettes and freedom.
Rooms with fish and chips, empty bottles, magazines.
Rooms that filled with summer sun and small talk.
Rooms that saw dreams stay the whole day
like shadows on the neck.
Now only the dust in those rooms remembers.
Remembers your hands the colour of time
your body’s soft betrayal
your absence handed to me in the vast morning
an unfinished book
you expect me to write the final word: