Post-war.

You strip back the wallpaper,
the paper you put there to cover cracks
and damp and dry rot.
I smoke a cigarette, let it add to the
stench in the air,
procrastinate while you struggle
stealing paper from stone.
You slump, against the brick,
against the hate we've built
between us,
I get high with my head fighting for my heart.  
 
Feel, hear,  
taste, smell
the Heaven that once was
and the char and ash and nothing it is
until the clock chimes noon.
 
I fetch the ready meals from the microwave,
sit beside you, kiss you emptily,
we stare blankly into
black beads.
I smoke, you drink at the Tea party.  
 
The square box is lit
with adverts and infomercials
and sit-coms you can't relate to.
My hands are deep in soap water
missing the days your eyes burnt on my arse.  
 
We were the same,
still are similar
but we're cities apart,  
we're countries,
we're worlds,
we are burnt out stars.
 
I lose grip,  
fall asleep in your arms,
heart falling over mind
at the touch of your pale complexion,
under the guidance of your fingertips.
You return to the scene of the crime.
 
You turn out the light.
Kiss me once, eyes closed,
conscience free. I spark up in my bitter fashion.
We would fall apart
if I didn't keep us bound here.
It's all I want and all I can't bear.