I wake up cold, no blankets, and my heart’s a tip.

You’ve moved out,

leaving handcuffs,

lost happiness

and burns on the carpet.

 

You booked in to my heart for a short weekend visit

but then put up posters

and turned radiators high.

You said not to worry,

lots of places to go and people to see,

but then you dragged in an evergreen aluminium tree

and put a selfie from Venice on the top.

 

So what is there left?

Your fingerprints and footprints on the gentle pink paintwork,

your footprints and fingerprints on the remnants of rugs.

 

I look around

and call around

but my heart’s chambers echo.

You’ve moved out,

leaving handcuffs,

lost happiness

and burns on the carpet.