Nine weeks later
my telephone bill
remembers our every word
and silences,
a note of your code,
your number,
the time, the day;
all the seconds
of our conversation
measured, totalled
and subtracted
from my bitten account.
The figures so sharp,
specific, twenty five pounds
and four pence,
as if someone had focused
a camera through our curtains,
shot our silhouettes in black
and white; so sharp I look again
to see if some computer
had numbered
all the hairs of your head
where my fingers lost
count in the dark.
.
.
.
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