I’m in that cream sunday daze and the light from the portholes isn’t enough to spoil the colour of the walls like skin like eyelids

I feel you holding me in your sleep and for the first time it isn’t claustrophobic 

For the first time I don’t get anxious about moving or waking the other person – waking you – because now everything is okay

The smell of spring is waiting around the truck 

I think if I get up the morning will massage my skin with its cold fingers so I glaze over at the back doors for a while and the chair and the piles of beloved and lost things

I imagine the stories of those pieces I don’t know, a faded shirt from a treasured night or gifted from an old friend, a half-empty tin of lighter fuel, piles of carefully chosen sea stones

I see a face looking up at me and a tail wagging and

if he knows I’m awake

well, I mean, who can say no to that?

As I slide out of bed you grumble something and stifle a chuckle and turn over to the wall

I mind my feet  and as I unlatch the door and drop it down to let the world in

as I feel fur brushing against my calves and knees, 

I remember

I’m sat on a toilet 

the speaker plays soft sad boy and sad girl music 

the hair of the bath mat between my toes

I was reading poems while the shit poured from me 

and I started to think I was somewhere else