There is so much beneath the surface

of what we are being told,

like cream rising to the top of milk,

like layers in the ocean,

like light filtering in only through the top.

The rest is inky darkness,

I used to tread over damp ground

yet seek shelter from the rain.

Those wilted lives, half-truths

fed to half-lovers, are gone.

The hollows of your cheeks

are cracked like parched earth

from years wasted needing me to kiss you.

The mistake girl is in the corner,

Facing the wall,

Counting how many cracks are in the cheap,

Thinning plaster.

Trying desperately and

Failing to block out her mother’s voice.

Seductive,

Setting a price.

A creaking windowpane,

Pelted with snow,

Reflecting light onto the dusty, deep brown floor.

The rooms seems to sigh, pained with age,

Abandoned; left waiting,

The cold is kept at bay by a single lamp,