The argument was about religion.
You wanted to know how I could
believe in nothing,
while I desperately tried to explain
I believe in a lot of things indeed,
some of them probably even sillier
than your God.
The argument was not really about religion.
You wanted us to go to a hotel that evening,
and I said I didn’t, so you invoked that
old myth about atheists, morality
and hedonism, saying if I didn’t think
anyone was watching, then who would know?
The argument was not really about sex, either.
Two pints and half a fight later,
I was staring at the ceiling of a cheap B&B
when Chelsea Hotel No.2 lodged itself
into the space between our bodies. It was
before I’d learned to strum three chords on dad’s guitar,
and you were useless in that department too.
The argument was a quiet one.
I had no God that night,
Still, I missed the music most of all.