As lovers once trapped under glass,
We both have lost a little something; it
Staggers me after, weighing heavy, just
Over a belly, with hands, round—pushing
Out and over, pulling me into a cloud,
Wrapped together in shirts, matched in
Blue, of love in practice, if not really.
The boy is cracked, blistered even,
Throwing up whenever it suits him—
On corridor floors; she knows him
For what he is, what he was,
What he’ll never be again.