Quietly you stand beside my bed.
My eyes are closed,
I’m sleeping so it seems.
You stroke my cheek, gently
with the backside of your hand.
My cheek is wet.
I almost cease to breathe
and just lie still,
and through the wall I hear the sound:
It’s still raining.

Finally you leave the bedroom,
closing the door, just almost,
not to make the dark complete
and I take a deep breath;
opening my eyes at last.
The wall-paper in front of me
is patterned with little brown dashes.
It’s ugly. I’m ugly.
‘Cause I didn’t dare to look at you and say:
"Forgive me mum!"