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She tries to strike with him the flint of eyes.
He makes sure to withhold from her his glance.
Each occupies a separate dull place
And their free actions brought them to this pass.

They chose to marry, chose to speak the words,
Repeated as it were a playground verse
Whose questions and replies are sound, not sense,
To be unspoken without consequence.

She knows this, as she contemplates her loss,
Alone in the spare room, gazing at space.
The lack of tenderness, the want of joy:
No heartless social law took these away.

She knows this, and the knowledge is the pain;
No-one to call on, no-one else to blame.

Audio file

Listen to this poem — read by Zawe Ashton