Of Canals and Whores

What is this camping on my bed?
Are you going to the shower?
Ian is a London boy.
We sleep next to each other.

The forgotten wallet spells no doom.
We are sleeping in another part of the railway again.
And again.

We share the smiles and drink some tea to realigned reality.
Look at each other.
Go to the place where there is no...

Whisper in my ear, that he is going.
Breaks me.
Again and again.

Not even half way there yet.
Shattering the mirrors, carving on pavement!
Succumbing to hatred.