I can tell

The prawn boy shells himself
limb after limb into my bed,

I know where he is
when I note a white racer
stark as a stick insect
against terrace side routes.

I can tell what he has eaten
and when his brain
upsets the surface of the room
like a barnacled whale.

He does not rise for air between kisses,
he plans trips in books,
he spits tea onto the duvet
and talks mostly about how the shape of his scar

cuts him clean from clusters.
I can tell when the kindess stops
and what time, this time
he will tell me it's not working -

that he is leaving
and that I should thank my genes for symmetry.