No, not you, the reader
but you of the once long email conversations
discussing philosophy, your thoughts
about poetry, your favourite films,
how you love Autumn
and the sound of the rain.
But since we met
all you do is complain
again and again
about your job, your flatmates
and the endless rain.
When your complaints
finally end (unlike the rain)
you turn on me
with the white glare of interrogation
and say: You,
now you must talk
and just as when I walk
onto stage
under that bright white glaring light
my mind empties
and I take on the persona
of frightened rabbit
in front of headlights
and I forget everything I wanted to say.
