In the morning you were a drowsy fruit tree.
I woke in your branches with lemur paws,
eager to unpick your eyes like lychees
and pluck your dreams like ants from your bark.
But instead I make coffee and try not to notice
how indifferent you are.
Cause lately I've been spinning careful webs
to keep safe these small testaments
to the way the light falls on the angle of your hip.
To the grazes on my shoulders made by your lip.
But a sudden gust of wind bust open the window
and tore them all to bits
when you left.
Late at night in the library
I pour over diagrams of your breath.
Looking for a pattern in those fathomless smudges
that tell me nothing's changed.
But I find only dust amongst bits of song,
crumbs of pollen and tobacco stains.
It occurs to me there is nothing more prolific
than the distances between things.
Distance between every page of every book in the building.
Distance between the pillow case and your soft head.
Distance between the palms of your hands and the skin on my wrists
when you hold me down
on the bed.
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