We fight every morning,
With the bathroom lights on, and the door closed.
Then go our separate ways
For the rest of the day.

That my ageing, neglected body,
Does not bring out the best in you, is plain to see.
In fact, we should have stopped
These trysts long ago.

It does not take long,
For my hopes to drip-dry on the cold stone floor,
My shame laid bare by the pity
Of your angry displays.

And as I push you into a corner,
Your protests muffled by damp towels and abandoned clothes,
The steam clears from the mirror to leave me,
Standing alone in self-loathing.