Type.

Type, type type,

type, type, type,

down here I sit,

down here I write.

I wonder if I’ll get to talk to you tonight?

I’m getting better, I’m fighting fitter,

as I sit to re-paint our shared grey-green picture.

The blue-sky still eludes me,

For I can’t get out of my duvet,

acceptance has entered my heartbeats,

but the memories of you run too deep,

my blood hungers for your heat,

thoughts of us are seldom weak.

I say I will pay them not an ounce of my time,

Was going our separate ways a crime?

When will every tendril of affection die?