Change

It was Tuesday when he left me
and Friday when he returned.

Nothing had changed,

he still stunk of stale smoke
and wore lager on his pulse points.

My nails scratched at the dried blood
covering his name on my arm.
There were thirty eight lines beneath it,
one still fresh and bleeding.

The pain had blocked out
his memory. My memory.

Now his face scowled at me,
screwed up and old. With vague
recognition I squeezed my arm.

Nothing had changed.