You weren’t in the museum amongst the illuminated manuscripts.
And I can tell you, I looked really closely.
You weren’t in the vanilla chai latte I had later on in the cafe.
(The girl who made it could have told me that).
You weren’t in the gift shop.
Nor in the cry of the seagull on the roof.
And I (for one) couldn’t find you in the endless blue sky.
As I can’t see you now on these words.
Or in the spaces between these fingers which have been with me from the start.
So where are you?
I’ve made up my mind:
I’m going to start putting it about that we’re sleeping together.
How else – unless I’m spending eight with you out of every 24 – could I put up with any of this?