I was a mess
when you left. You made
a mute of me with absent goodbyes,
bored morning niceties.
Glued my eyes
shut together with slobbering drunk
‘Seen 2:41AM’
regretful mixed messages.

I see you, when you’re ***-in-hand,
wincing on the words,
tip-toed, nose-to-the-floor,
trying to spit out the fact that
you’re miserable.
Amnesiac
on a whim with a foggy gut feeling
I could be worth telling.

I’m listening
to the things you’re not saying.
The silence much more silent.
I would have looked after you.
I still want to, but now I'm
forever perched on the edge of the bed,
touching boys and feeling nothing,
and seeing boys and feeling nothing,
and seeing boys and seeing nothing,
and seeing boys and seeing
boys and seeing boys and feeling nothing.