Perfume on my wrist

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.