On Tuesday she used to do yoga,

while I'd sit and watch the box

in a vegetable way

but always ready to say

to myself that I was an artist

implying that she was not.



It's funny the way that self-pity

can take over from self-esteem -

well, I was the prince of pride,

and though I'd cheat I never lied,

as if that were enough to make her happy,

as if that could satisfy her dreams.



Too late now to say that I'm so sorry,

too late to say that I can change and mend

the things that hurt... she didn't need to worry,

she always knew I'd get there in the end.



Now I'm tying myself up in contortions,

don't know if yoha will do me any good.

It's about time I tried, though I'd rather be inside

from the cold, studing tantra -

still, I never did that when I could.



I never did the things that really mattered,

there seemes to be some key I couldn't find

to unlock myself;

I could have done it with her help,

but I was to busy scrabbling for each moment -

now I don't know what I did with all the time.



Sometimes I'd play the wild rover

sometimes I'd just get smashed all day...

on Tuesday she used to do yoga,

on Tuesday she went away