Mellissa Flowerdew-Clarke

In the silence, our words form from dust
and lint, curled into clouds under the sofa.
A shuffling foot edges the rug into shadow,
unsettling the threads of all that is unsaid.
Tip-tap-tapping fingers
are the metronome of my frustration.

It’s easier to stare at the wall than at your face.
The way the blind’s cord dangles limply is really
rather beautiful.
I see you changed the ceiling bulb, second from the right.
Somehow light seems brighter when studied in silence.

I could ask if you want a cup of tea.
But I don’t.
I clank your favourite cup as I take it from the shelf.
Its echo seems too loud in this light.
I pour earl grey for one.