the fold of you
in pale and bed
counting fingers to the sound
of kitchen water and rain.

sore and cotton knotted
silence like the absence
of interstate, scissors
sit to halve us
on the bedside table.

i kept them in my pocket
till i saw you again
jailed behind a fence row,
smoking the street
into a haze of winter.

i’m still trying to make this
radio work and i only pick up
the sharper things now,
but i want you

to think of hearts
and what's inside them,
how to fill an empty place

‍
Published 5th March, 2025.