It's that photo again —
where we are lopsided,
and look like we haven't slept for days.
Those nights we trod every hit into the carpet,
flipped coasters, thumbed brown bottles,
passed I love you round
like a pack of Amber Leaf,
Your fingers clutched
my wrists in this vortex
as we moshed on the high line
over bills and work
Then we’d puncture the truth home
into polystyrene boxes of chips.
I’d hold your hair back
while you were being sick
over a future where
we'd no longer need each other —
You,
the same,
for me.