I dreamt of travel disruption last night
and haven’t woken up since; know that though,
a whole ****** of crows hidden along
the hemline of a coat was not the
reason I was late, nor were black stamps spat
out through mirrored windows, panes unmoored from
frames in the wake of two late goodbyes: one
said at a check-in desk disguised as point
A; the second, central, wrapped around an
orbit of children where they now lay.

This news- again, it is news- is an air-
bag of ears, of interviews, listening
so we don't have to, colouring pallor
in post so the ghosts of aftermath do
not go unnoticed when we believe it
may not of have happened.

I'm going to buy out the sky right of
tragedy and skywrite,
                                     vandals of companionship are not tolerated below this message, or above.

A fortnight ago an Algerian masseuse anointed each note of my joints,
spread thumbed cursive over my shoulders and
back around to my chest;
she spelt out how I'd be shivering now knowing you were leaving.
And last week you led me to an acupuncturist where he said,
Rob Frost had quit his job on point duty to become a receptionist instead.
I knew it was ******* by the way you barked in the background.
I knew it was wrong from the rumble through the stud wall,
sound of timpani, of gusto's drawl ringing in my ears:
the resonance of windfall if saved 'in the best ISA for years!'
This has been the best February since records began
and I thank you for being a friend.

I woke up at 4:12 am
I had six missed calls from you
and on the seventh call I finally picked up
and all you said was “I’m sorry I’m sorry”
over and over
until you hung up without giving me a chance to say a word

it’s the first time I’ve heard your voice in ten months and I don’t know what it means
but I know that I can’t breathe
I send you text after text after text
and you’re not answering
I’m calling you and calling you
and you’re not answering
until finally you tell me that you’re ready to die

I’m shaking now and I’m crying
and I can feel my dinner creeping back up my esophagus
ready to purge my body at any moment
and I don’t know what to do
how am I supposed to talk you down when I can’t even think
or breathe
the only thing I know how to do is tell you that I love you

I love you I love you I love you
I say it over and over
hoping you can feel how true it is through those three little words on a screen
and you’re telling me that you don’t want to be loved
but I don’t know what else to do
so I keep repeating it
I love you

At twelve years old
S/he recognizes
The s is now mis-placed;
S/he's not a tom-boy,
But a real boy,
Running
His own race.