Durrants

Our hotel room was too small
For our luggage and our arguments
So we left them in the hall
And went to bed, went straight to bed

When we wept in that cafe
Trembling hands and whispered palliates
All the people stared to say
Your transgression, our transgression

And we’re holding a love that’s passed
In a drawer under last year’s stale cigarettes
One that burned up the photograph
We lived in

Took me to a house of green
Asked me, do you know how much it means?
I tried hard to squint and see
But felt nothing, I felt nothing

In the morning on the street
She suggested we try one last thing
Maybe at some great museum
A connection, our connection

And we stared at the love that’s passed
Onto white walls of Sargent portraits
And remembered the photograph
We lived in