Dirty Dishes

Standing in the kitchen, spilling our guts,
Spilling each others blood,
Sink full of dirty dishes and dirty secrets,
Telephone line engaged,
Your mind engaged elsewhere,
Your heart is in London,
Your mind is wandering back to Muswell Hill,
You made a small fire on the roof terrace,
Cremated love letters,
Words I gave to you,
Now a pile of ashes,
And you’re leaving,
And writing stories about me in a magazine,
And I am not crying because you are someone else now,
And there will always be dirty dishes and secrets and engagement rings at the bottom of the Thames and I suppose I will always remember the silence in the kitchen when you left.