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19/01/2015

This weekend

Rebecca White

I.

When I wake in the morning
the pieces that I remember best
are your face and your hands.

At night I can hear one
and feel the others on my back
but in the morning

you are herma. There are
no arms or legs and you roll
and roll cold stone.
II.

I get in sticky drunk
feet wet on bathroom tiles
eat half a tuna sandwich

and climb back into bed
after another evening
of missing you enough

to wonder if I could ease
back the scars knitting my wrists
and crawl inside to hide in my own arms.
III.

The next day I stare
with black eyes
eyes wet left.

Other faces
are pooling
and I hear them

discuss plans. I have
no plans
so I punch my head through glass.

The air on the other side
is blacker than my eyes
and it sticks to my skin.

I am drenching
and dripped
and swollen with the realisation that

I have found you at the back
not where I left you
closer than I thought.

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