She would write
little poems for me,
and scatter them
around the house,
like unexpected confetti.

Elliptically cryptic
in construction,
these notes of seduction
defied further
deduction.

2 tins toms, read one,
Cuc x 3, caulie, bread rolls.
Dead Sea Scrolls
would be decidedly
more easily
deciphered.

I came to adore
these lettres d’amour,
and would secretly clamour
for their post-it-note
glamour.

Boiler on blink. Phone man.
said another.
Dinner in dog
whilst perhaps
not the prettiest
was one of her
pithiest.

Prosaically profound,
part-Ayres, part-Pound,
her poems
would confound.
I hate you
And I hate your stupid face.
I am leaving you.
was the pinnacle,
so crisp

and so clinical.

Such a shame
she disappeared
shortly after that.