love #13: seven degrees

(i)
Monday
I sneak out for breakfast
because I can’t spend
one more second with you.
Our room is heavy
with your clothes,
your books,
your snoring breath.

Some chemistry pulls me
toward coffee
and the city’s centre—
a survival instinct
barely felt.

(ii)
My fingers
nearly frozen on
pedestrian crossing buttons.
I breathe from
the cloud of breath
of a high-heeled brunette.
Her cheeks flushed
as though
someone has
warmed his hands
upon them.

(iii)
The first minutes
in cafés of new cities,
an unsignposted street corner
near the motel.

Morning condenses
on the windows,
keeping me hidden.
I order simple pastries
and doodle
on the squeaky glass—
my initials and yours
blotted out.
Eat breakfast
quick and businesslike.
Coffee kicks through me
keeps me moving
steps clipping on the pavement.

(iv)
You drink beer
and discourse.
I gaze up
and watch stars
breach the skyline.
The gas flame
of a chimenea
like
a false beacon
flickering
with distance.

(v)
We’re sleeping
economically
in single beds.

(vi)
The first train
on Wednesday
wakes me
groans the words
no sex
and I’m forced to agree.
Stamp to the shower
loud and heedless.

(vii)
Breathe out my bitterness
in small talk
to the café owner
who recognizes my order
but doesn’t know my name.
One more sticky
dusty almond danish,
espresso, and a brief escape.