unequal division of labour: i can’t do the dishes
without my shirt getting wet
like warm baked bread made on gusty summer mornings
i prefer to eat the rules rather than live by them.
i feel a vastness of days when you’re not here
stirring the pot of promises beside me
each evening arriving, already flattened
by someone else’s rolling pin.
this feeling belongs on an island,
tucked away in the changeover space
between tomorrow and today.
a slip of paper soon forgotten: tarnished terribly.