I wash the frying pan

while you dry the water jug.

I can’t dislodge the bits of onion

you burned onto the base.

The jug slips from your fingers,

smashes on the tiles.

Every time we get close,

something breaks.

One night, when I was eighteen,

I drove drunk. I couldn’t understand

why my lights weren’t working.

I drove for miles, pressing the indicator stalk

so my full beam could light the road.

When I let go, everything went dark.

I thought my headlights were broken,

but I had forgotten to switch them on.

You walk out of the kitchen.

I swap the sponge

for a firm-bristled brush,

scrub the dirt off.

I sweep up the broken glass.

All my life I wanted

to find you; so I could show you

how I managed without you.