Recognising

Hanging socks on the line
and I keep turning your face over in my head,
crop it, put it in black and white,
let's add a backdrop
because you're so fair and the air
smells of lemon washing powder.
I cannot say much more
because I know the warmth is gone,
I have lost the spark that started
in the morning
and fuck, it ended in the night
until you left and the socks stayed.
We're especially forgotten
purely for the nature
of our games,
destructive.
It did not surprise me
in the Sunday Sun
when you cut the washing chord
down and choked me out
but time has passed
far too fast and now I wake up alone
socks on the new line
washing up for one done.
I'll sit down and miss you now
missing the days when we used to
hook up
and that is how I fell in love
with the feel
of you not being around.