Poem: 'Afternoon Portrait'

Robust, the autumn sun shines cold, through a blue-sheet sky.

Sunday afternoon, we lie sprawled across the couch,

washed over by our own words: languid, fresh off the press.

You get up to write. Put on the coffee press;

sit at the table in your jumper, blue as the sky. Leaves rustle in the wind.

You type. Wisps of coffee waft up in thin strips through the clear air.

Cold, I take a deep breath of this drink that isn’t mine, and bask

in its warmth, in your reflected story.