I brought round books
and then we just sat
in the living room and watched
a documentary on silver-backed
gorillas. You kept offering me wine
and I refused, instead talking about
a Jonathan Glazer film I saw
the other day because I thought
it would make me seem interesting.

After two coffees and a sour apple
my teeth felt like they had tightened in their gums.

Whenever we have actual conversations
it’s always you with joke criticisms of me,
for example how I always wear odd socks,
or how I never eat anything,
and this allows me somehow to step back
and listen and observe you, to see the way you
nervously look down at my feet, and hear how
your opinions of things are regurgitated or
usually just really lame.

How do people have time to read Proust?
How can you not care/understand about how recycling works?

Outside your tiny square garden
sat with ivy bursting over the fences
and because there was no car at the front
the house felt desolate, but for us
in the semi-darkness, me waiting
for an acceptable time to leave
without seeming rude, you
holding Burroughs on your lap.

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