Stood outside the office, smoking

More verse. It's December: humour me here ...

Stood outside the office, smoking

Spits of winter knock on my skull:
"you don't belong", prints the rain
on the paving slabs. My feet cramp
in their tight, new shelters; my coat
welcomes the sharp wind's nails.

As I suck my liver warms my blood
enough to keep a video
of you running through my head.
I cannot press my lips to pause
your smile centre screen. No worries -

our scraps of chat scatter the world
around me like the heaps of leaves
we kicked last week, our shopping jaunts
for furnishings, our idle bickers.
I grin at strangers: "you don't exist".