Portrait of a Breakup
The late-afternoon sun crouches behind me,
daubs my shadow across the pale concrete of the ground,
a black brushstroke stretching on an ink-brush painting,
towards where you’re standing,
deep in thought, turned away.
So my shadow spills up your legs,
the small of your back,
your nape,
until my head is on yours,
shadow nuzzling hair,
black on black,
a smudge,
like a bad painting.
The closest contact we have these days.
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