Tarmacked at Gatwick, the thread

that connects us is thin as a text message.

It is the tring-tring of the mobile

dancing across the fold-down table.

But it is there. And in a week I will be back,

and jetlagged, and empty suitcases

will settle in the hall,

my toothbrush will return to the holder,

the lights and darks will separate,

ready for washing. There will be laughter.

Our separate worlds will converge again,

and together we will make plans.

I recently published this poem on Instagram so I thought I'd share it here on my website too.