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?