It's that photo again of us lopsided,
where we 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,
forking the truth home into 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.
Nick Webb