Carol Ann Duffy — Close

Lock the door. In the dark journey of our night two childhoods stand in the corner of the bedroom watching the way we take each other to bits to stare at our heart. I hear a story told in sleep in a lost accent. You know the truth. Undress. A suitcase crammed with secrets bursts in the wardrobe at the foot of the bed. Dress again. Undress. You have me like a drawing, erased, coloured in, untitled, signed by your tongue. The name of a country written in red on my palm, Unreadable. I tell myself where I live now, but you move in close till I shake, homeless, further than that. A coin falls from the bedside table, spinning its heads and tails. How the hell can I win. How can I lose. Tell me again. Love won't give in. It makes a hired room tremble with the pity of bells, a cigarette smoke itself next to a full glass of wine, time ache into space, space, wants no more talk. Now it has me where I want me, now you, you do. Put out the light. Years stand outside on the street looking up to an open window, black as our mouth which utters its tuneless song. The ghosts of ourselves, behind and before us, throng in a mirror, blind, laughing and weeping. They know who we are.