Cold

It was cold in your freshly painted flat.

My fingers white at the tips,

Warmth drained from my winter cracked lips.

We sat almost together,

In chairs you told me you had stolen, 

From the rotten rooms in that house across town.

 

You the narrator, the vision you spun 

Blazed through the centre of my mind. 

The man you created I understood.

The vision of the man was mine.

 

The man incarnate I mistook, 

Sitting in his newly painted rooms.

I couldn’t interpret the altered voice,

The sudden change of looks.

My hands wrapped around the old navy jug

Filled with port,

The base lined with sediment.

 

I sat and thought, even in a smile, 

Of the wasted time.

I sat and thought 

But never thought to stay. 

And still you talked,

 

Endless questions designed to get the measure of me,

Little tests laid out,

You hoped to get the best of me.

Seeing if you could tally up our minds.

All the while we sat apart.

 

In the vacuum, irritation grew

Which, uncensored, bloomed.

In an armour of hospitality I ensured that you knew me 

Less than you did before.

Though you listened at keyholes,

You never heard me whisper.

 

When you took my hand in yours  

Your knuckles wrangled at my bones,

Though you held them kindly 

I’d rather you had let them go.

 

I bound you with solicitous indifference, 

Was disarmingly meek,

I made it impossible for you to speak,

Knowing that we, though face to face,

Could never meet.

 

It was cold in your freshly painted flat,

With the heaters that rattled and your frozen taps.

The cold kissed my shoes, got in through my sole,

Past the laced defences, wrapped around every toe

 

When they turned to ice, felt like stone, 

When every part of me was cold,

I got up to go.