And there is no sea air to keep the cold a length. And like my lips the pavements are cracked with ice, and the weather, more like Prague than Bristol. And I pull furniture away from radiators, and plug in extra heaters, but with no avail.
And in the place I shelter the cold dampened sheets remind me of that winter. The storm. How we stayed in bed for hours. And how you wore T-shirts of a particular brand to impress me. And the skill it took to sleep two to a single. And how my house mates thought we so alike. And how you called me little one. And even though by beaches, the South winds brought only cold, no golf stream. And how we cruised the parade, the satellite navigation, which spoke only French. And the windows, to which our breath clung. And a terminated contract. And how we parted in London Victoria. And those three students on the train, drinking wine, talking profanities. The lanes. And the way I brushed your forearm on the tube. And how simple things were, and how complicated I made them. And Bat For Lashes vibrating above our room. And City and Colour at the station terminal. Screens or orange digits. And the night the police called. And the last of the September nights that we spent in the marina. And your smile. And our now infrequent conversation.