.
And it’s tragic.
The kitchen gets wetter the longer you’re gone.
I keep thinking of you and overpouring hot water,
Overfilling my tea,
I haven’t made a decent cup in months
Or so it seems.
.
And the nights are no better.
I find myself folding up sheets in my sleep,
Holding them tight,
Making out that they’re you,
Moulding them into the shapes that you make…
Britain’s worst sculptor: Revealed.
.
