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him, me and Eliot

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we meet every Sunday. sitting on the sofas at the back. drinking coffee and taking turns reading out loud from The Waste Land.

he whines about writer's block. nothing sticks to paper. the words are false. he throws them in the trash. I whine about lover’s block. no one sticks to my heart. their voices are false. I throw them in the gutter. 


 we let Eliot express our feelings. with his words in our mouths, we are sure of everything. never completed vacation plans are formed. 

the coffee cold as he declares his love for me. I say it’s T. S. talking. and the hyacinth scented tealights. in the silence I hear Elizabeth and Leicester row down the river.

I stand and run into the evening. he comes after me. shouting with the blackbirds: "You are April to me!" 
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