When I Am With You

When I am with you,
the city does not matter.

It does not matter
that metalled roads turn in on themselves,
or that homes lie abandoned
once people have poured into the earth
at the light of dawn.

It does not matter
that birds sing on rooftops instead of trees
or that spiders weave
thick webs behind the kitchen cupboard
in which we store chocolate biscuits
and green tea.

It does not matter
who calls
or answers the phone's call.

What matters only
(when I am with you)
is the deep sea that fills our room
from wall to wall
and skin to skin:
the sea that drowns us as we float;
the sea that fills our mouths with water
until tears run from our eyes
and onto our hands
and feet
on pillows made of promises
that cannot wait to tell the time
by the clock towers' beat.

When I am with you,
the city does not matter
for the cities we have lived in
are far beneath our sea.