this was only meant to be temporary

Take me back to the pasta and ketchup days
to the tins of Tennents Super
and talking shit for hours on ancient sofas
in living rooms that were not ours.

Take me back to those houses that were not homes
to the community of filth
where beer can towers rose above mantelpieces
of fireplaces that could not be lit.

Where dishes without owners piled in the sinks
and ants invaded the kitchens
take me back to those hours that were my home
to my community of filth.

Perhaps now the pesto tastes better
and the wine tastes better
and the beer is more expensive
and the hangovers are more expensive
but the sofas are still old
and the living room is not mine
and the dishes are not mine
and the people are not mine
and the talk of hopes and dreams are worn down like the carpet
the ants no longer cross.

These days are not mine
and I have lost the ones that were.