I come to you with no hope in my knees. We sit,
make the pub a confessional. Condensation slips
down the outside of my glass. We’re here again:
same date, same table, same dress. Bonfire night
runs in the background, like a television on mute
during tea. We’re talking in shrapnel. By the time
my drink is gone, your brother’s waiting at the bar.
You say something about a spark. I stand, go home.
I don’t leave drunken messages on your phone.
I play that song you never liked and sleep sprawled
across the bed. I keep my head. This much I know:
I’ll change my hair, you’ll be back by the New Year.
You’re with the girl whose pout reminds you of Lolita.
In the morning, I fold the red dress and post it to her.