She remains in bed
with insomnia
amongst poppers,
and fag butts.
I burn jealous,
the motor in my feet
ceased here.
Her breath fell,
fingers draped
on mine.
Neither she nor I, left.
Teeth grind, suckle,
slip me,
into yesterday
bolshie
by my root,
roaming.
Should’ve pinned her,
while she was with me
not as a peripety
born from distaste,
wishing my hand
was hers round waist,
or as I stubbornly
concede that she
pinned me
by the moon
on my lip
from those times
she drew blood,
and bit.