A poem from my forthcoming book

This poem is part of my collection, My Dead Flowers, forthcoming in December (Harper Collins).

I woke up today

And you weren’t there
I woke up yesterday and then too.
Last month,
Last year,
And the year before.
It’s confusing because you’re here—
Your hand poised under your chin,
In thought
Or pretence thought.
And we are bitching about Emily and Wallace
But also the aunt next door.
I don’t think of you always but you’re there,
present —yet absently,
Like  the sofa or the cat.
Like that tree in your courtyard with serpentine roots
Which has witnessed many afternoons through the gap in your curtain—
When we sat on the bed you were born on
And bitched not just about Emily and Steven but also K and C and A.
I will not call you the next time I’m in town
Or on my next return or the visit after.
Some other time perhaps.
Because you’ll be there. Just like you always are.
And we have always spent our time together leisurely,
Without urgency and obligations.
Only when we wanted to.
And you…