In quarantine

it isn’t so much about
why I never see you
or hear from you
that I piece together
truncated meetings,
disconnected texts
to create a long future
of seamless togetherness
it’s my naïve adoration of
your masculine remoteness
bewitching, snaring
hypnotising, implicit belief
of one soul in two bodies
roaming in an un-lived house
the roof is all soft,
pastel-coloured
I am all alone, pining
I let my tongue run on
the fuchsia walls, carnations
in window-sills, delightful
to every sense, strawberry lips
bleeding profusely-
its celestial home, if not home
full of roses, I pick
a long thorny stem
the sky in the west is broken
by the faint light, I scribble
‘I love you,’
on red-hued clouds, whispering
‘come home.’

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