You sit here talking blaming me
for choices you made three years ago.
‘If it hadn’t been for you
my life would have been so much better’ you say.
Then you look around in the cheap café
where we eat every Friday night and criticise its pathetic décor.
I’m relived that you are not focusing on me,
my jeans with paint spots on, unpolished shoes
and other sartorial failings.
I don’t feel hurt anymore,
know that soon you’ll grab my hand,
look me in the eyes and say:
‘I do love you darling.’