I think I cried once,
when it was cold, and I’d lost something precious.
There was no-one there to catch me
as a hole in the world opened and I slid under.
Under the ice, slowly drifting with all the other debris.
Until you offered hope –
it tastes like honey, or cocaine, I’m not sure which –
very moreish with a cup of chai.
Yet, you grind away at me.
The brief periods of calm I used to take for granted
are now the dreams of a life once lived.
When did time become so important?
You are my ‘choice’ of recreation,
filling hours that used to be mine alone.
You require constant, undiluted attention,
twenty out of twenty-four.
Never mind – I can sleep when I’m old, and you can look after me.
M.R. Hume © 2018