The minutes pass only in clicks of keys,
the drumroll of space bars, the slight zephyr
of breathing, stale cigarette smoke, the broken wheeze
of a machine, the silent turns of clever
codes, there is no talk, nothing anyone can hear
but a sudden eddy of air inches near.
A faraway crack of sound, a van tyre
bursts on the road, and flaps to a whining close;
the traffic's a rush of fluid, fuel and fire
seeping in thin red lines from shut windows.
Your voice is a perfume left on my wrist,your footfalls the brush strokes of an artist.