Stumble round yours, crawl up the stairs,

barely scranned all day.

Worked by the time I creep through your door,

you leave it unlocked and I say:

Phew, just a sec, another walk done,

coming in hot on the back of a run

or a climb or a swim or a trip to the gym

or myriad things that won't make me thin.

Kiss you hello, Baby, how was your day?

A slow-mo reply; not so good.

I try to console but can't dredge up the words,

my brain has been sluiced out with sludge.

So I'm lucky you're patient & you love TV

because I couldn't move if you wanted to see

the Louvre, the Meadows, a walk to the shops.

I'm not skin & bones but I'm willing parts off.

You cook a meal but I say I've eaten,

I'm telling you how far I went,

and then I suggest that it's time for bed

and here's a familiar argument:

Early night catches the rising sun

to return to the gym or take another run,

When is your rest day? And I reply, never,

Lips tight: And when is our time together?

I'm panting and wheezing, melting down fat,

the clean eating's drained my reserves.

Glycogen stores are long-phased from my cells,

so dizzy I trip on the stairs

of my flat when I'm back, and there's no joy

in the aching of tendons & bone I've destroyed.

No runner wins with a splinted shin

and I'm losing at hunger, losing at thin.

There's comedy tucked inside injury,

like the loss of a love it's so rarely a snap.

The form in my mirror isn't what you see,

that loss is a grind and a scrape or a tap

inside of your skull or of some other bone

and now I'm an IPOS and I must stay home,

chewing on time, lounging, bereft,

by the time I have time you've already left.