The Morning After Chill

by Paul Tristram

Her breathing has changed
and she is starting to fidget, slightly
but she is still pretending to sleep.
We are no longer even remotely touching
which is important, now.
There is at least an arm width of space
between our bodies
all the way down this long single bed
from our heads to our toes.
That thin chasm is icy cold,
filled with screaming regrets,
half-remembered names
and last nights drunken smiles.
The bitter aftermath
of an intoxicated attraction now dead.
If I was not so hung-over
and so far from where I live
I would have taken my leave already.
But that time comes at last
as she stirs more regularly with impatience.
I quietly slide out of her bed
and silently into my clothes,
then steal out of the creaking door
of this smoky one night stand bedsit
like a criminal backtracking his way
from the scene of a crime.
Openly wearing the opposite of a smile
upon my weary disillusioned mug
I try to squint away the guilty
grey morning light
as I tread quickly along
this unfamiliar Cardiff backstreet.