For a while I pick the glass
Out of her hair, which is gorgeous—
Ombre peach and gold.
She holds my hand and won’t agree.

I leave her in front of the tobacconist,
Full of the language of murder.
She wants more money than I have:
I give her hand sanitiser. Did she ask me to leave

Or did I just go? Hard against the night
We forge, forgetting, forgetting. I clean my hands
At a sushi restaurant, my thin hands,
As weak as wheat. When I go to sleep

I dream of them both, altered.
She sits with glossy brown hair
In my cousin’s salon, gazing
At a swatch of sunset colours.

He watches me silently as I flick
Through a family album. Look, I breathe,
We share a star sign. He shakes his head,
No. We share nothing.