THE WAY THINGS WERE

On his back looking up from the worn brown carpet in the room we used to shoot and get stoned they were blue: his lips, the tips of his fingers, the ends of his toes.
‘What happened?’ I said.
‘OD'd,’ she said.
They got into the house infiltrated our space with their shit when one of the women worked the streets, dealt a little, brought some friends round and they moved in.
By the time we left the wreck that remained of the house we’d made our home any romance I’d had about the way we’d been living was dead.
The landlord said, ‘Thank you,’ when I gave him the key. ‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘I’m glad to see you go…no offence…’
I wasn’t offended, surprised we’d lasted so long the way things were.