By Caitlin Young
Your hair is soft and damp, Twisting around aluminium for coke can curls. Hot air fills our stomachs from scarfing down our first real meal. You speak of the singularity, You are brilliant. You speak of Spain, You are great. I never had much to say about any of these projects, You seem to know them better than the hairs on your head. I have spent so long studying the back of your head So that when the time comes, and we have been long gone from this house, And I spot the back of your head I'll have some peace in knowing You are still wandering about on sleepy Sunday mornings With Friday night's mixers Pinned to your head. When I see the back of your head, My hand will hopefully remember what it felt like to hold your face. It will remember the initial shock that bones held you up and blood ran through you. Can you even believe that something so blue lies below the pink of your shower skin? I will see you and think "Don't you have some work to do?". You always seemed to have some mission, All bold and grand and planned. Maybe that day's project will be a wander with a goal of running into as many people as you can. You hope it is people you have once loved, It just turns out to be me. We'll both pretend we haven't noticed each other until we catch each other's eyes. You were always shit at pretending to be shy. We hide away the nasty parts of who we have become. I'll kiss you after the cash register. you tell me to come back home with you. I will never live this uncertain scenario down, It will stick with me When I get to places we made promises about When I look into crowds This scenario will play out Crystal and shining like the diet coke cans on your head on our short lived sundays in bed.