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.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 