Poetry: The Rhythm Method

The fan stops spinning,
I peel myself off the damp sheets
and sift through nightmares.
Unpicked, heavy,
I leave them hanging.

Burning toast.
Your reflection in the mirror
as you shave.
Close, closer, closest
three blades eight blades eleven.



The door closes,
the crunch of tyres on gravel.
I roll my tongue,
stuck on your surname.
A full bottle of wine.

A welcome dull ache fills me
as I empty.
The shower scalds my back
and I spread my legs
to watch.