Delete

I know that it has ended. That there is a gap between then and now
and some words inbetween,
a tall line of privit across feelings,
a development of tower blocks on Twitter,
your phone and my phone have fallen out of facetime.

My brain’s texting
‘how are you feeling’ ‘do you regret it’ ‘I hate you’ ‘ don’t leave’
but my fingers are sausages stolen by a retriever.

I have good conversations, smile at work colleagues
while my heart is rootling through phone photos trying to find evidence
of a promise, a rose on a filing cabinet, a globe lamp from Oxford St,
a feet off the floor film kiss.

I will tell my friends that this is routine.
To buy ice cream and movies and make room on their sofas,
I will delete detail.