Monday, 8 November 2010

I remember when you shrugged into another's skin

taking it out for a smoke.
Clogging your lungs like cheese sauce gropes cauliflower;
cloaking those wild thoughts that minds birth and stomachs harbour.

Leather slicker than your surface or the hair beneath your running palm,
it was more yours than the face you'd showed the mirror,
sucking in your cheeks lightly and holding pout like a mantle piece.

You'd barely gotten downstairs when the actual owner came collect
and I expressed myself like only a sunken potato can,
cloakroom duty to dobb you in.

You slunk up, shoulders too small for what fitted perfectly before
and cocky complacency like snow now melted
on your cuffs and collar and forehead creases.

I think of this when they say you hadn't been yourself lately.


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