It was you who drew the moth to the flame.
In a small-town Sunday, you walk the parade.
They see your dress ripple
in the gasp of the wind,
they forget old desires
and then become better men.

Are you laying beside him, his jaw foreign and thick?
Is his bland conversation a momentary bliss?

It was you that wore the dressing gown.
In a false-flag freedom, the high-street crowd.
They heard you crying
as I boarded the train.
All misery is gossip
and can be spread once again.

Are you thinking of me when you start to undress?
The way I counted your freckles,
the way we faltered to ***.