Do you have something for me to read ?

There may not come a day
when we no longer count
our fingertips,as peaks
we feel all better for life on,
he wised,and I could tell
he knew what he
was saying.I had to try
and confront him, because
I never quite belonged;
and I thought I knew my
mountains from the unpoetic
apparatus.I had theories about
recreation, while he likened
to the kind of man with
something he'd want to have
and someone he'd like
to be. A rush of cold-blooded
city breath turning over inside
his chest could be heard
whenever he spoke.It hurt me
immensely, that he referred to
poetry as whiskers-but-no-teeth.
They are like watchmen,
fond of wishing - Poets that is
he said.The poems,
and these were his last words
before he left for ever,
are their apologies to themselves
for wishing for someone else's
sleep.I stayed back for an
hour or so, after which I told
myself - I have stayed back an hour
or so, there is no point in leaving now