It's

It's not because

you were uncomfortable

sitting by my cello case

on the No 27 bus

or that you stared

when I stood with others

our twisting torsos

performing, un-choreographed

a dance only the driver knew

Or when we waited

round that ornate stone font

ghosts of breath escaping

from faces befitting a funeral

quaking as the wind

whipped the west door

Or even because your clothes

smelled for weeks of

fish and chips

from greasy paper parcels

dripping vinegar

Or when you wore

bright purple wellies

with that hideous red mac

stamped in puddles

left them on the kitchen floor

I'd like to say

it is all about you

but I can't

because it's not

it's