A Portrait To The Dead.

glasses collect like frozen roses
in the sink,
and the limescale creeps up
the tap
and I can't believe I am
here again.
You kiss my neck
and I can see
the ghost in your eyes,
the last surprise of darkness -
can't say I wasn't happy
to feel the weight
of your fake smile on my
cheek
and the stairs
creek for you
when you're creeping up them
at two am
and I'm sleeping,
barely breathing
drooling on the pillow
with bad dreams.
You paint me
while I'm sleeping
still dreaming of days gone by
like frozen roses
in the sink
or the cat creeping the stairs
at five am
to say good night.