Fiction

We have grown out of wanting each other

the way children grow out of stories.

A palimpsest—

my over-keen hands

smear the crease of your spine,

seeking those traces of fiction

that bore us for hours at night

and leave us turning the lights off

to hide in the colour of ink.

Dust-jackets. Blanks.

We have sewn ourselves shut,

hidden the fiction of bodies—

our leaning, secret undressing

a half-hearted attempt

at dedication.

Flat on the rug, you speak volumes

in a lost language.

To fiction.

You bunch my wrists like bouquets.

Quietly, with a sleepy mouth

I blow the dust from your ribcage;

unbearable glittering motes

sailing the Monday sunshine,

your breath drifting out on a breeze.

I watch them rise in dust-clouds,

the fairies who stubbed out the stars.