Corridors After a Smoke

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.

 

Secondhand:

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.

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