I’ve no clothes, two days became a week.
You were sitting with me on concrete carpet,
on a market blanket full of dust and fur.
Borrowed headphones on my shoulders,
salty air and goosebump silence.
The rose must have got trapped in my window last week
– It closed and died. My bed was covered by mouldy leaves.
I lied. You weren’t with me
like my mother,
like my priest
like the zigzag on my wrist in marker pen.
If you leave early I go off,
– mould unressurected. Sweaty palms on a phone.
Burning ear and a cry that summons my dog,