You contemplate only that which you can tolerate, which is, to say,
barely a handful less than refusal.
Dust migrates across every backward glance.
Skin getting sticky from fossilisation.
Kites are suspended mid-air.
Don't try to chase yourself back in echoes
in search of sweet nothings and guitar chords.
You'll only find old promises, emptied,
in Volvos and lecture halls and hospital wards.