Later that night, I cut
the plastic boning from the bodice of my dress:
no need for structure, over summer.
There were bruises
on my knees I didn’t recognise.
I saw us all that day, all day
projected on a big screen:
the bathtub underneath the orange tree,
crushed grass imprinted on my shins,
your cat-like eyeliner, the warm
sangria out of mugs. My feet grew numb
beneath my hips. Saturation.
I still felt overseen
when I walked home, alone and shouldered.
A black light flicked behind a balcony,
a woman, neon-lit,
crushed out a cigarette
and turned to kiss, to give
a kiss. This wasn’t meant
to sound like romance. But
it’s not ironic, either.
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