Oh I had such plans
but I'd drown them to have you -
not living, just carrying time
and the mix (of masturbation, and
the sob of tiny hands) your
calling once a week till
I have to go, quietened in the
light of glass ceilinged kitchens
where a coffee you had once is
still ringed (it's maybe moss now)
and your hair-dryer is tucked under my bed where
you snuck it that first week, the bold
first parley when I knew you little
and now, when you've someone to
talk to and your friends crawl back out
of the wood-work, blinking in singledom
with you (why do girls always break up in packs?)
that you say to me, you're okay...
and the gap, the dorsal leap flung back
is that when I go, you'll be fine
and (how) am I to take that...
.
