Rollerblades and a belly
/ your technicolour tongue
you mispronounce things,
cling to the wrong parts of words
and people, probably, too
you insist you found me
when you hold my shoulder
But I promise, you haven’t, I don’t know the body
My parts aren’t
Technicolour, or monuments,
like yours
your arms hang like art
I’m a constellation of remnants
I keep shedding, shedding
/ just an outline and
you’re coloured in
we could exist like a checkered pattern
like the clothes you wear on the night train, burrowing into the neck of night
or soon
you’ll be busy saying other things
and looking for other people.
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