To London.

I try my hardest
to make you break up with me.
I have grown tired
of your self-importance,
and the way you make
me feel.
We are in the centre of you.
You push me onto
sweating underground trains
and expect me to not mind,
when someone else’s body
is clammy, pressed up to mine.
We go south-west.
You make me walk
down upturned roads
full of nannies,
builders,
face-lifts,
dog-walkers,
roads thinly disguised as representing affluence.
We go south-east.
You make me feel unsafe
going home on my own
in those areas I do not belong in,
and do not think to protect me.
I dream of escaping
to a creamy, country housewife
with dimpled elbows
who will welcome me
with baked goods and smiles,
and we will sit
with an uninterrupted lack of noise.
You try to make me jealous
with your scores of streetwise schoolgirl fans
but this pale attempt
does nothing to warm me.
I cannot commit to you
when you make me feel so cold
even in the middle of July.
I have grown to hate your touch,
and shrink away
when you suggest a weekend together;
I see enough of you in the week.
I think this is the end of us,
and I am sorry
that I entertained this for so long.
I think we knew it was doomed from the start.
I know that you will survive;
you can thrive on rebuilding yourself
after destruction
better than any lover I know.
But I am leaving you
for someone who takes the time,
and gets to know me,
someone by the sea, or looking out on fields.