Remembering

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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