That morning in September,
many years ago when you were going back home to England
to visit your mother,
I didn’t know that it was the last time ever
that we were making love.

We began in the shower
and ended up in the kitchen
never made to the bedroom.
Then I drove you to the airport,
warm our embrace took a long time parting
I was feeling so deliciously in love.

A fortnight went
you rang
delayed,
so many things that had to be sorted out
and beside your daughter was having a baby.
“Sure honey, take your time.
I do understand.”
Did I?

A late night phone call
you had met an old friend
and was living with him now
wanted a divorce
and my warm memory of last time tasted cold of ashes.
You weren’t making love to me at all.