The root of the word “decadent” is “decay”

All day
I curl up against the wall
with black coffee,
reading your old copy
of Dorian Gray.

I wait
for December dusk,
the top side
of the feather duvet
frosting my fingertips.

Hiding away,
I carve this trench
in your room,
persistent as rain.

I push past gossip
murmured by these walls,
of who else slept in this bed
that now holds
my body’s shape.

You return,
haloed by the glow
from the streetlight,
expect me to emerge,
turn towards you.

You don’t ask
what I thought of the book
or if I want your hands
on my back.

My heart’s heavy
thud presses my lips
shut; my eyes close
under the weight
of a dead response.

Kate Garrett was born thirtysomething years ago in southern Ohio, but moved to the UK in 1999. Her work has been published online and in print, most recently in Ariadne’s Thread, and forthcoming in The Emma Press Anthology of Motherhood. She lives in Sheffield, England with her children, cats, and a mountain bike.