I’ve observed you, closer than kids’ nits, the overseeing of the erection of a building. Each twitch is the unsolved sum in the back of the maths’ book I didn’t take seriously at 16 because the boys next to me were note ready, asking questions of me like, “Go to Southampton with me?” And sure I went, but not before a toilet vomit, a nerve-shaft-splinter.
And you are the eccentricity of a Madonna video in the nineties when we all still listened and award-givers did and you are the half-cooked-frozen ready meal I scintillatingly under-cook purposefully so that I don’t have to cook any more dinners and you are slight alteration of size between shops so you look like you’ll fit but you won’t. And you are an almost-outfit for Halloween, trophy I never got, gift I didn’t log, sex I couldn’t suffer. I owned you after.