by Bridget Lutherborrow

Our patterns match
but are not rhythm, not
colour or design. I find
hollows and make them
mine – find splints to make
flimsy parts whole, you
keep your long limbs shut
up tight and limp to cover
your too sure feet. I am
becoming who I am
again. Unsure and hard
drinking – irresponsible, but
unwilling to let any piece of
debris lie. You are becoming
whole to me – desire lines
apparent in the places
I have seen you stumble
already. We find each other
wholly strange, wholly
congruent – similarities to
baffle, discrepancies
to make us sigh, at
different skylines
fresh and blank
against the night

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