there are different kinds of missing. maybe this is the kind

where i notice the edges of myself more, like smudging kohl at the corners

of an eye draws attention to it, or, when having come inside, you realise

you can feel your fingers again. nothing new, exactly, but you notice

yourself as something separate to the music contained in a car.

that photograph

you looked like you were on a  fairground ride, or cresting  a wave, maybe it was the angle of the light, or the shot. half of your face in shadow, the cleft of your chin. i

could have made a brass rubbing of the folds of your t-shirt, rolled it up and tucked it under my arm to take away. like an umbrella. how english! there are times i feel we could do anything.

dual

viki holmes - Wales

he sends me pictures of a city the colour of orangeade, it makes my head fizz. his photographer friend writes gnomic poems underneath images of cherry blossom in the street, another smile in shadow. beauty that is the more so for its transience. sometimes i wonder if she is a woman he could love. i feel safe crying in the dark, the tears grow like flowers under my chin.

i remember how you would hold me as though you held the night in your arms, keeping it back. i can’t remember how i was before, just that i used to hold my breath so that no one would know i was there. there are different kinds of love, but nearly all of mine involve words. some kinds are pictures, we exchange them like marbles, like an auctioneer displaying his wares. you show me people i may never see, what can i give you in return? i’m scared to tell you how much, but i do anyway.