Fahrenheit

My heroine’s
addiction,

like caked needles
and all their dirty fictions emptied
on the
hardwood,
come back to
haunt us
like a school yard high.

Should I twist one for
the road,
because I’m not coming
home
to find you
seizing.

I’m seconds from that
feeling
I never want
to live without, when the clock
and couch stop
intertwining like some

drug-laced divine.

Jesus
god damn
Christ,

either our
timing’s
sacrilege

(had me so convinced)

or I’m
hallucinating
this,

a bait and
switch of
colours wrapped like
rainbows round
my lover.

Maybe that’s why I still
sense summer
in the
seaweed of
your
eyes

when it’s all frozen
over three
weeks into
October.

She’s slipped well
past the
solstice now,
into long winter
Fahrenheit
resigns.

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