I like the way you move.
And I like the way you shat in a bucket
and had to wipe with your own hair,
which was falling out in large clumps,
wrapped around your hand
because there was nothing else.
I like that you’re telling me this,
on a cold November morning,
over coffee on Westland Row.
And you frown
at the memory,
or maybe because you’re about to tell me
you don’t love me anymore.