I knock on the door but you don’t answer.
No one answers. I cup my hands to peer
through dark glass at two bodies in pleasure,
the couch creaking with your gasped Och. I hear
your, ¡Och aye! at each stroke. These are savvy
sounds, bold smells; take-out curry, bhang and cum;
back when we were students; skint and randy.
I knock again, but your, ¡Och aye, me bum!
fills my mind. This is your flat. That unsure,
Midwest twang is mine, crying as I came.
Did I always cry during sex? How odd
and queer. We’re shadows dancing on the door
I press my ear to. Look what I became —
a sad wee ghost that once called you my god.