by Maria Sledmere
You begin your technicolour love affair with the sun.
I’m sleeping through fire alarms, I dream of a Game Boy cartridge
which leads me to racetracks and ring-spilling pixels.
Playing ‘Would You Rather’ with his tin can gravel, her silvery
alto reminds me of you. A song for her brother too; I guess
maybe he’s two years younger. The world’s a violence of striated lines
you’ve crisscrossed more times than I’ve felt
the fabric of my own breath crumple in nomadic sadness.
It’s different, the haptic quality of the endless city; you can’t
just crush the hidden curse, recursive space. I think of the Firth & Clyde canal
as an artery running away with our pasts, but stagnant—
perhaps fortuitously so. Bitter tequila stings the throat;
I remember your distaste for intelligent techno. Nothing was ever
so fleeting or sweet, hating myself watching Made in Chelsea
to get back a sense of substanceless now. Pretending
you prefer French cinema; the difference is what, five hours
or so? I wonder why you cut your hair, over and over, slicing limes.
On the tracks walking back I feel less alone, but as ever
out there, your aeroplane trails through impossible zones.
There’s no-one else I’ll speak to on the phone;
sometimes I think you’ll call to talk, talk about food or work or wine.
We share a rubble of youth, but you don’t care for sculptures
and besides, I can’t build much of a future like this.