At the Barracks in Islington on the side stage she
gripped the cage overhead and wrapped her
legs around me. We both had
soft bellies, and she was
strong. We both had blue eyes, but
hers were beautiful.
Her strong (my weak) lonely
epidermal cells, folded through
(what were ours) faded cornflower-blue
bed sheets. The pillows were all hers,
so when she left I slept with a
rolled up hand-towel under
my freshly shorn (still grieving) skull.
I’m begging you. My strong,
sweet, soft-bellied love. Do not text
me “wanna catch up over a cheeky beer?”
after sending your brother to pick up your
Do not text,
not one more time.