She lies there looking at you afterwards
and you know you’re already gone:
stood there in her room, looking out,
beyond her net curtains.
She can’t mop her sticky thighs
or clear her aching throat while
your eyes reach out to
the house opposite hers.
She doesn’t make any move to touch:
she knows you wouldn’t like
her to do that, now. Unless she
was someone else.
She won’t cry with a man still there
in her room and you know it’s
time you took your sorry
corpse away to let her.