We have grown out of wanting each other
the way children grow out of stories.
A palimpsest—
my over-keen hands
smear the crease of your spine,
seeking those traces of fiction
that bore us for hours at night
and leave us turning the lights off
to hide in the colour of ink.
Dust-jackets. Blanks.
We have sewn ourselves shut,
hidden the fiction of bodies—
our leaning, secret undressing
a half-hearted attempt
at dedication.
Flat on the rug, you speak volumes
in a lost language.
To fiction.
You bunch my wrists like bouquets.
Quietly, with a sleepy mouth
I blow the dust from your ribcage;
unbearable glittering motes
sailing the Monday sunshine,
your breath drifting out on a breeze.
I watch them rise in dust-clouds,
the fairies who stubbed out the stars.

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