A metallic seat.
Hard orange plastic.
Strip light sickness.
And I look at you.

Disinfectant scrubs my throat,
sterilising the language I want to use.
And I look at you.

Naked feet, white tinged with yellow.
Invisible socks.
Cotton top welts left in your ankles,
flattening the spidery hair.
So much hair.

And I wonder,
when did you get so tall?
And I look at you.

Sallow face, a dehydrated
caricature of youth, erased and lined.
Needles **** the marrow,
the muscle tone gone but
stubble erupting, handsome underneath.

And I wonder,
when was the last time I saw you?
And I look at you.

Frail arms, thick bandage cuffs
giving little comfort to the empty purple beneath.

And I wonder,
was it how you imagined?

Clean blade?
Neat slices?
Choreographed claret leaving a poignant splash
on your final soliloquy?
Head to camera, atmospheric lighting,
ready for your close up.
Someday you’ll be a star.

Or was it sordid?  
Brutal?
A smashed bottle?
Hacking, mangling,
uncontrollable blood
aimlessly gushing, drenching the rambling note
so the words washed away?
No camera angles.
No haunting memoir.

And I look at you.
And I wonder.
When did you become so lonely?


And I turn away.