Friday, 19 April 2013

The Last Time' by Maia Cornish

You are bright, cheerful. But you avoid my eyes. I make dinner. You open the wine. We wash dishes. I know you are leaving me.
 I make small talk.
 ‘Shall I book tickets for a play next week?’
 You hedge. 
 ‘Can I get back to you on that?  I need to check my diary.’
 I know you too well. I feel your distance. You think you are fooling me. I let you.
 We make love. You do your bit, I do mine. No emotion. No pretty speeches. Routine. The last time. I don’t cry. 
 I watch you as you sleep. I am as cold as you. 
 In the morning I will fain sleep. You will gather your things furtively. You will close the door for the last time. You won’t leave the key.
 Later, I will cry. Then I’ll change the locks.

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