'We have never liked you, Bill,
and, in all likelihood,
we never will,'
you write in his birthday card,
with a palpable
sense of accomplishment.
You seal the envelope
with long, slow licks;
there's something sensual to it,
you're tasting victory perhaps.
You write his address with the best
handwriting I have ever seen.
We walk to the postbox together
then go home and spend
the whole night in each other's arms,
reborn by candlelight
in copper and bronze.
I'm woken round 5am
by a text.
'Did you hear about Bill?'
it says. 'So sad.'